by Rob Thurman
"Which war?" I straightened up a few inches with interest. Long enough ago and Promise could've drained as many soldiers as she tried to save. I didn't know when the vampires had started living hunt-free lives. It involved human-style nutrition, four food groups and all, combined with massive supplements of iron and several other elements. It worked…now. It wasn't something available over a hundred years ago. I would've liked to think that if the war had been before the nineteen hundreds, Promise had only taken the lives of those who would've died anyway. I liked to think, but what did I know really? Besides that, it was none of my business. "World War Two? The Civil War?"
"Asking a woman her age. You shame your gender. And, Caliban?" Sable lashes dropped over languid eyes. "There is not enough wine in this establishment," she said with an inscrutable smile. "Perhaps not in the entire city."
I thought about asking her of the little girl in the picture that had been placed so carefully on the piano, but I had a feeling the question wouldn't be any better received than the other. "Okay," I gave in, "no wine, then. You want some fancy morning thing with champagne?"
"Yes, a Bellini would suit, if you would be so kind." The bar had few windows and they were covered with blinds and curtains for the sun-intolerant among the clientele. Promise had used the opportunity to remove her cloak and shake her hair free. It wasn't often I saw it loose and unbound. It was something to see. The stripes poured and rippled down her back to past her hips as she sat … a tiger on a wooden perch.
By the time I returned with her drink, she was ready to reveal why she was really at the bar. "So"— she took the smallest of sips—"you got what you wanted, then. Niko told me where you were going, and once Georgina saw you, she would know." She studied me over the glass filled with sun and champagne. "And she did, didn't she? Does that make you happy, getting what you wanted?"
The words were uncompromising, but behind them I heard a reluctant sympathy. Promise knew my reasoning, but she also thought I was a twenty-year-old idiot hanging on to past teen angst for all I was worth—like a baby with a pacifier. She knew my reasons were valid, but she, like the others, thought there were ways around them. Vasectomy, contraception, cross your fingers and hope for a bouncing baby non-flesh-eater. Let's say I didn't trust any of the three. No one knew what the Auphe body was capable of regeneration-wise; condoms broke— as Sophia had once carelessly said, Niko was proof of that; and as for the last option: No. No way.
The only thing that would work, George wouldn't do. She wouldn't look. She wouldn't cheat. And as much as I cared for her, sometimes I didn't much like her.
"Yeah, I'm happy. I got exactly what I wanted." I didn't snap or snarl. I said it in a perfectly even tone, which in some way was worse than the other two would've been. It was true. I'd gotten what I wanted. George safe. Safe from me. Safe from monster offspring. Safe from the Auphe, because if I didn't care about her, then neither would they. If I didn't see her, then they wouldn't notice her. It was very much in her best interest not to be noticed.
She dipped her head in apology. "I,who never have the slightest urge to meddle in anyone's personal affairs, cannot seem to help myself with you." She extended a hand to lay it across mine. "After all, Caliban, you are family." She'd said that, done that, the hand thing, once before and I hadn't reacted very politely. I tried to do better now. I left my hand under hers for three seconds (I knew … I counted) and then turned it to clasp hers briefly before quickly letting go. Like I'd said to Niko, I wasn't good at this shit. I just wasn't, but I would try. For Promise, I would try.
"Want another Bellini?" I asked gruffly, ignoring the fact hers was still three-fourths full.
She pondered the glass gravely, then said before taking another small sip, "Perhaps in a moment."
A hand abruptly landed on the junction of my shoulder and neck. It wasn't a friendly grip either. "What now, boss?" I said with a groan. "I haven't impaled a customer in days."
"No," he agreed with bunched jaw. "You did, however, serve a vodyanoi a margarita on ice."
"So?" I shrugged, not seeing the problem.
"With salt," he added.
"And?" I twirled my fingers in an impatient come-on-already gesture.
"And half his face melted onto the bar." He bent slightly to put his head even with mine. "Salt tends to do that to them."
"Oh." I winced. I hadn't done it on purpose, although it was a good one to remember. As a matter of fact, Robin had mentioned that once the last time we'd dealt with them—salting them like a garden slug—but I'd thought he'd been joking.
"But, honestly, how can you tell about his face? I mean, come on." I grimaced. A vodyanoi was not pretty by any stretch of the imagination. Mythology says they look like scaly old men with green beards. In reality, they appeared more like humanoid leeches. Neckless, they did have a sketch of a human face to draw in their prey. A mottling of colors. Small liquid eyes, a dark mark on gray flesh to imitate a nose, and a sucker mouth they used to slurp out your blood. Quick in the rivers and lakes, they were slow and awkward on land, which is why they rarely left the water. Why this one had donned a coat and hat and lumbered his rubbery way to the Ninth Circle for a drink, I had no idea, but I would've thought he would at least know what salt looked like … for facial preservation if nothing else.
A wad of rags and a spray bottle of industrial cleaner were slapped on the bar beside me. "I'll supervise," he announced with stony impatience.
I nodded a good-bye to Promise and headed down the bar. It curved like the bow of a ship and by the time we reached the end of it, I could hear the shrill keening coming from the unispecies bathroom down the hall. "Jeez, he's not still melting, is he? That'll be one helluva mess, and you can bet your ass it won't go down the drain in the floor." Actually, I did feel bad … a little. A vodyanoi would eat you if you dipped as much as a goddamn pinky toe in his particular watery territory, but this guy had been here for a drink, nothing else, and I'd melted the poor son of a bitch.
"You worry about the cleanup. I'll worry about the vodyanoi." Ishiah watched me wipe a slick, snotlike substance from the bar before I began working on the set-in gray-green stains. After a few minutes of watching me apply the elbow grease, he said grimly, "Robin was shot, wasn't he?"
You had to hand it to the peris; if it was worth knowing, somehow they knew it. It came from running bars. If there was information available, it was going to pass through a bar before anywhere else.
I raised my eyes to his. "Why you asking if you already know?"
"Exercise your social skills for a moment, would you?" He leaned across the bar, nose to nose. "I know he survived. I know he walked away. What I don't know is how badly he's hurt."
"Not bad." I continued scrubbing and snorted, "The son of a bitch was wearing a bulletproof vest. Can you believe it?"
"So he was shot and by a human." He moved back, eyes distant and speculative. "I guess that solves that, then."
That stopped my cleaning. "You mean you know who the hell is behind this?" The cloth, heavy and ripe with vodyanoi flesh, fell to the floor. "You know?"
"The sirrush, the Hameh birds, now a human." The wings were out in full force. "Robin Goodfellow once did a … he did a thing that was not quite ethical. It was a long time ago and he's grown since then. Changed. I hope." The wings waved, disturbed. "And it was so very long ago that I can't imagine anyone seeking retribution now, but…" He shook his head, scar whitening at his jaw. "Obviously that isn't the case."
"Let me get this straight. You know who's behind this and Robin doesn't?" I said with disbelief.
The wings disappeared instantly as control returned to face and body. "He knows. He may even have known before he was shot, suspected at least. But he's certainly not going to tell you or your brother."
"And why the hell not?" The question may have sounded belligerent. It should have; it was.
"He respects the two of you," Ishiah answered slowly as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. "He considers yo
u friends—Robin Goodfellow who has had very few of those in his life. He doesn't want to change that. He doesn't want to disappoint you."
Now, there was a concept to boggle. Robin didn't want to disappoint us? Robin who chased my brother relentlessly before Promise staked her claim. Robin who lied, cheated, and picked pockets just to stay in practice, who had killed a succubus in cold blood because she wouldn't give him the information we needed? Robin who sold used cars? That Robin didn't want to disappoint us?
I liked that Robin, I'd finally been forced to admit to myself, but did I think he'd worry about disappointing us? No. I didn't buy it. Unless…
"Just how not quite ethical was this thing he did?" I asked with apprehensive curiosity.
"You do not want to know, and, regardless, it's not my story to tell." He folded his arms across his chest. "I would give you more information on at least who these bastards are, but general knowledge isn't specific. Knowing the why and the very broad who doesn't get us any closer than if I knew nothing at all." The control flickered and I saw more than wings. I saw light and fire and my ears ached from the pressure, and then it was gone. "Go. Ask him. Maybe you can convince him where I can't. Stubborn bastard."
Jaw still a little loose from the light show, I was suddenly alone as he disappeared into the back room. I peered over the bar expecting to see smoking footprints burned into the floor, but there was nothing. Peris.
I still had to wonder.
Having given the unprecedented go-ahead to cut out of work early, Promise and I did just what Ishiah suggested. We arrived at her apartment at ten a.m. to find out from Robin what Ishiah wouldn't tell us. We walked in, I told him what Ishiah had said, and waited for the response. He was completely cooperative. Threw buckets of info at us faster than we could soak it up.
Yeah, right. He wasn't telling us shit.
"I have no idea what that canary with the overactive pituitary gland is on about," Robin said loftily from the sofa as he pointed the remote at the television that was normally discreetly hidden behind a reproduction of what was Waterhouse's Windflowers, or so I was told. It was a woman with blowing brown hair, a violet and ivory dress, and flowers all around her bare feet. It was Promise, I knew it was. She . had been the model. Maybe not sketched or painted outside on that sunny morning, but she'd been the inspiration.
"Porn, where is the porn?" Goodfellow complained. "Does the woman not have a single exotic entertainment channel in her package? Unbelievable."
"Robin, we need to speak with you. Pay attention." Niko, playing part bodyguard, part nurse, removed the remote and tossed it with brisk force over his shoulder to me. Fortunately, I both expected and caught it or I would've choked on it. Not one moment of one day could I hope not to be tested at my brother's slightest whim. It was second nature to us both, but it didn't stop me from tossing it back. Niko ducked gracefully and it bopped Robin in the forehead.
"Charon's pasty white balls." Robin glared and rubbed a faint red spot above his eyebrow, but turned the television off. "Nothing happened in some forsaken sand-ridden land, and I have no idea who might want to kill me. Well…" His eyebrows twitched. "Let's embrace reality. I have no idea who might want to kill me as a concerted plot. How about that?"
"You're lying," said Niko. There wasn't a single doubt to be heard in his voice.
"And how do you know?" The head tilted, chin lifted, eyes narrowed—all in challenge.
"Because you always lie," Nik said with dark exasperation. "Why would that possibly change now?"
"Ah." Robin slid down a little on the couch and folded his arms. "Good point."
"Then stop being an asshole and tell us already," I demanded.
"Or what?" he asked mockingly. "You'll hug me?"
"You son of a bitch," I growled. Niko caught me as I lunged, still cursing, toward the couch.
Cunning fox eyes grinned at me, but the actual curve of his mouth was uncertain, as if that half-assed hug was so far outside his world that he barely recognized it for what it was. Yeah, you and me both, pal, I thought as I glared at him over Nik's shoulder. Learning how to be a friend was a bitch and a half.
"Robin, just tell us. If you tell us, we can help stop this. I would think you would want that." Niko pushed me back with a warning glare of his own. His glare was more of an implication … a level glance, but I knew it for what it was.
"No."
Niko turned back to Goodfellow at the puck's response. "No? You…no?" I hadn't seen my brother at a loss for words often. If not for the situation, it would've been entertaining. "No, you won't tell us," he went on, "or no, you don't want the attempts to cease?"
"The first." Robin aimed the remote and turned the television back on and the sound up. "Now, why don't you run along and find your Scottish pal? While you're wasting time here, he's probably scarfing up a busload of kiddies as we speak."
It was a low blow, and it was meant to be.
"Robin," I growled.
"No."
"Goodfellow…," my brother insisted.
"No."
"You tiny-dicked piece of shit." I curled my fingers into a fist.
"Not very inventive, proven false, and no."
"This is a serious matter." That was Nik again with the calm reason.
"No."
"Loman."
He looked at me, but he didn't say no this time. He didn't say anything at all. There was nothing but silence from him until we gave up and left. From a puck…silence.
Which meant, for now, we were shit out of luck.
17
After a few hours of needed unconsciousness, I woke that evening, took a shower, and went where Niko was sitting on the couch looking at the paper spread out on our battle-scarred coffee table. He must've gone out to buy one, because he didn't tend to swipe the one from that asshole downstairs like I did. Always bitching to the manager about the noise, and I had to admit when you hit the floor after being thrown over your brother's shoulder, that does make some noise. So I played loud music when we sparred to cover up the floor pounding, lamps breaking, and tables overturning, but apparently he wasn't a fan of alternative music either. The manager came by and squawked at us once a week or so and the asshole under us lost a paper or three. Niko didn't approve but as Thou Shall Not Steal wasn't kissing cousins with Thou Shall Not Kick Your Brother's Ass in Sparring, I ignored him.
"What's up?" I asked. "You looking for 'Ninja needed, soy-eating, anal-retentive required' in the classifieds?"
"No." He didn't raise his eyes from the paper. "It seems Sawney finally received some publicity after all."
I sat beside him and took a look for myself. The picture wasn't so bad. Just a gurney and a full body bag. That's a helluva life to lead, isn't it, when a body bag is just one of those things? No big deal. The headline made up for it, though: eight slaughtered AT MANHATTAN PSYCHIATRIC CENTER…"Oh,…shit,"…I murmured.
It seemed two security guards and six of the mental patients had been killed. Two more patients were missing. Four were decapitated and the other four had their throats slit. All were sliced to hell and back. "Hell, we knew the son of a bitch does have a taste for the psychiatrically challenged." And for me. I read the rest of the article. The two missing patients were assumed to be responsible for the deaths…with what? Their damn fingernails? Those poor bastards had been taken away either dead to be eaten later or alive for Sawney's fun and games. I hoped for their sakes they were dead. "Want I should take a smell around?" I didn't see we could do anything else except make sure it was Sawney.
"I think that is an excellent idea." He refolded the paper and slapped it against my chest. "Take that down to Mr. Arnold. He's no doubt been looking for it."
My brother, occasionally he did surprise me.
We waited until around midnight until dressing in black—jacket and coat, shirt and pants—and took the train up to East Twenty-fifth Street. Niko had done some research online about the place, but standing across the street looking at the fence topp
ed with concertina wire, I didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling thinking about the mental health field. At least seventeen stories tall, the building was a brown looming mass straight out of a Stephen King book. Hundreds of glowing hungry eyes masquerading as windows, the double doors that took you in never to spit you out again, and the Kingster himself doing the body cavity searches. Then off you'd go to the double-lockdown ward where criminally insane was already preprinted on your name tag. Hi, my name is Cal! I like to knit and kill, and I have father issues.
I kept looking up at the place, hypnotized, then shuddered slightly and looked over at Nik. "Okay, if there's undercover work involved here," I said, "Sawney can eat everyone in the damn city."
Niko snorted and we crossed the street. There was still yellow police tape fluttering here and there, but the cops had come and gone. The hospital was bound to have upped the security, but if we couldn't avoid them, then we were in the wrong job. We found an area where the tall security lamp had a shattered bulb…courtesy of a silenced shot from my Glock. The Eagle I was saving for Sawney or any revenants. I doubted I'd need it—they'd come and gone, but you never knew. Niko pulled a pair of bolt cutters and we were through the fence in less than a minute. The grounds weren't all that big in and of themselves, but the building was huge. It took a while to circumnavigate the place while dodging the occasional guard, some of who looked pretty damn scared. Couldn't say I blamed them. Whether the killers came from inside or out, I doubted the scenario had been in the employment brochure. We were more than halfway around the place before I smelled him…Sawney and the revenants. I pressed close through the bushes, put a hand on the cold stone, and looked up.
"See it?" I asked.
"Yes," Niko responded. "I see."
About five stories up was a brand-spanking-new window. Crisscrossed with wire the same as the others, this one was a little more clear, a little less clouded with age. They had gone through there and back out again from the smell. The scent was strong, stronger than a one-way trip. "Did you want to ninja your way up the wall or something?" I dug my hand in my pocket. "I think I have some double-sided sticky tape in here. You could wrap it around your hands and—" I dodged the elbow only to end up with the heel of a calloused hand millimeters from my nose. Busted cartilage, bone shards into the brain…lesson learned for the day.