Axel thunked two silver stakes with polished ebony handles onto the bar. “Crowd control,” he said. Juliet picked one up, hefted it, and made a lightning-fast downward strike, stopping just above the bar’s surface. She almost looked like she knew what she was doing. “Now I’m armed,” she said, “with silver. See you there.” She was gone before I could argue with her.
I didn’t even attempt to convince Mab to go home and rest. She seemed to be gradually recovering, and I knew she wouldn’t let me face Myrddin alone. Whatever was between my aunt and the demi-demon wizard, it was personal. She wanted her shot at him.
We checked our weapons. Ever since Myrddin’s little helpers had snatched me off the street, I’d carried a small arsenal for defending myself against demons, Old Ones, vampires, and whatever other nasties might come at me. I carried two guns: one loaded with bronze bullets, the other with silver. In addition, I had a bronze dagger and a second dagger with a silver-plated blade. Mab didn’t like pistols; she preferred old-fashioned weapons. She also carried two daggers: one for demons, one for vampires. We were as ready as we were going to be.
WE FILLED OUT A SMALL MOUNTAIN OF PAPERWORK AT THE checkpoint into Boston, but we made it through. Beyond the checkpoint, several taxis waited. I snagged the first one. Mab got in and sat with her head against the seat, eyes closed, while I gave the driver an address on Beacon Street, about half a block past the intersection with Berkeley. He nodded, pulled away from the curb, and turned up the radio.
Some talk-radio host was ranting about the Reaper. “Three murders in five days. Only a creature with no respect for life—for human life—could commit these horrible, disgusting, inhuman crimes.” His voice rose with outrage. “Only a monster could commit these murders. And every Bostonian knows where the monsters are: Deadtown. I say call in the military. We’ve got precision bombers. Burn the whole place down to the ground. Purge Boston through cleansing fire, and then start over. Let the filth of Deadtown perish, and let Boston, like a phoenix, rise from the ashes.”
I leaned forward. “Can you turn that down?”
The driver scowled into the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing under bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He reached forward and reduced the volume by maybe half a decibel. The talk-radio ranter speculated on how many megatons of explosives it would take to wipe out Boston’s zombie population.
“No, I meant turn it down. I really don’t want to listen to that nutjob right now.”
“Nutjob? What nutjob? The man has a point.” The volume stayed where it was.
I glanced at the cabbie’s license for the driver’s name: Ferris Mackey. “Listen, Ferris—”
“Mack. Everybody calls me Mack.”
Okay, fine. “Listen, Mack, I live in Deadtown. So I’m not all that thrilled to listen to some lunatic who wants to blow up my home and my friends, all right?”
Mack shrugged, but he switched off the radio. A couple of seconds later, his eyes returned to the rearview mirror. He studied me so intently he almost ran a red light.
“Watch the light!”
He slammed on the brakes, throwing Mab and me forward, the taxi’s nose a third of the way into the intersection. He turned around in his seat to gawk at us. This time, his scowl seemed puzzled.
“So what are you, a werewolf?”
“No.”
“You’re not vampires.”
“No, we’re not.”
The light changed, and the car lurched forward. “Vampires and werewolves, them I don’t mind. Good tippers, usually. So are the people who’ve been out to the bars—real people, I mean, you know, humans. Usually the humans are so relieved to get the hell out of there, they show their appreciation with cash, know what I mean? That’s why I wait for fares outside the checkpoint. But I won’t let a zombie in my cab. Those things . . . they’re unnatural.”
I didn’t want to listen to this crap for the couple of blocks we still had to go. “How about you turn your own volume down? You’re as bad as the nutjob.”
The salt-and-pepper eyebrows climbed his forehead. “There’s a serial killer running around Boston, and she calls me a nutjob. Nice. Hey, I’m just telling it like it is. This city has got its problems. Political corruption. Muggings. Gangs out in Roxbury and Dorchester. But we ain’t had a serial killer since, what, the sixties? Seventies?”
“The Boston Strangler was a human.”
“Yeah, and he was a good, old-fashioned crazy-type killer. Him I can understand. But now all these zombies appear, and next thing you know there’s this weird, ritualistic, carve-’emup killer on the loose. Everybody knows the zombies got bloodlust. That’s what happened. The bloodlust, it got to one of ’em. For humans to be safe, we gotta get rid of the zombies. Us or them.” He took another look at me in the rearview mirror. “I don’t believe you live in Deadtown. I saw you come out of that bar. You ladies are human, ain’t you? Out looking for a little paranormal excitement. Well, take my advice—stay out of the Zone. Unless you want to end up as monster chow.”
He pulled over to the curb and threw the cab into park, as if to underline his point. He stopped the meter and told me the fare. I got out and handed him exact change, down to the last quarter. He scowled as he counted the money, and I smiled sweetly. “Add shapeshifters to your list of lousy tippers.” I shoved the door shut.
He shouted something, but I didn’t hear him through the closed cab window. His gesture was clear enough, though. The cab peeled away from the curb, but slammed to a stop at the red light at Clarendon.
A nutjob and a lousy driver. I was glad to be out of his cab.
When I turned around, I didn’t see Mab. She wasn’t standing on the sidewalk where I expected her to be. My heart lurched. We were a block away from where the Reaper would strike, and I’d turned my back on my aunt.
“Here, child.”
I tracked the sound of her voice. There she was, sitting on the steps of an elegant, four-story brick town house. I went over and sat beside her. “I liked the way you handled that bigot,” she said. “Some people aren’t worth arguing with.”
There were a lot of those in Boston. Like Police Commissioner Hampson. You’d never convince a guy like Mack the taxi driver, because he was so totally in love with the sound of his own voice spouting off his opinions. Anything you tried to say presented a chance to spout off some more.
But I didn’t really care about norms and their opinions right now. I was worried about Mab. We hadn’t even made it to Back Street, and she was already sitting down to rest.
“Are you okay to go on? Be honest,” I added before she could reply. “I know using the bloodstone took a lot out of you. If you’re too drained, I can run and get that taxi before the light changes. He’ll take you back to Deadtown.”
Mab’s expression showed she had no intention of listening to any more of Mack’s monologue. Too late, anyway. Down the block, someone ran over from Clarendon Street, hailing the cab.
“I’m fine,” Mab insisted. “And I’m not letting you proceed without backup. Your roommate seems to have forgotten us.”
It was true. I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Juliet. I hoped she was okay. Most likely she was fine. She hadn’t fed properly in days, and I could see how hunting would distract her. Vampires weren’t what you’d call team players; they were survivors who put their own interests first. Juliet could easily get sidetracked and assume I’d handle my own problems. Like stopping the Reaper.
I stood, and so did Mab. She moved easily, but something haunted her eyes. How much pain was she hiding? If I asked her, she’d deny she hurt at all.
Side by side, we walked down Beacon Street to Clarendon, where we turned right, toward Storrow Drive and the river. The spot I’d marked on the map, the top point of the eihwaz rune, was a block east, just past Berkeley Street. We’d approach the site slowly, looking for places where Myrddin could be hiding, alert for any sign of the Reaper.
Back Street was deserted. To our left, past a na
rrow strip of grass and trees, cars zipped by on Storrow Drive, but traffic was light. To our right, Beacon Street town houses and apartment buildings showed us their backs. Grand and elegant in front, they were much plainer from this vantage point, crisscrossed with metal fire escapes. Parked cars lined the street and crowded into tight lots. We kept to the shadows, peering into the windows of garages and basements, looking for any sign that the Old Ones might be in residence. Slowly, we made our way east.
We were about to cross Berkeley Street when headlights shone down that road. Probably a car headed to the Storrow Drive on-ramps. I grabbed Mab’s arm, and we ducked into a small parking lot, getting between an SUV and a car. We crouched there, peering through the SUV’s windows, as the beams grew brighter. The car, a taxi, rolled slowly into view. It didn’t accelerate like it was going to get on Storrow Drive. As it crossed Back Street, it drifted to the right—past the on-ramps—and hit a signpost. The overhead STORROW DRIVE EAST sign shuddered. The car halted, kissing the post, its front bumper crumpled.
A drunk taxi driver? Just what we needed stumbling onto the scene when we were trying to stop a serial killer.
I hesitated. Should we go over and make sure the occupants were okay? Find a phone and call 911?
Before I could decide, the taxi’s front passenger door flew open, and a man—at least the silhouette looked like a man from where I crouched—jumped out and ran east on Back Street, away from us. Guess he wasn’t going to pay a drunk driver who crashed the cab.
I started to move from our hiding place, but Mab grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “Wait,” she breathed in my ear.
Across from the taxi, a garage door opened. Four figures streamed out and silently surrounded the car. One pulled open the driver’s door, and then gestured in the direction of the garage. A fifth figure emerged.
Myrddin.
I pulled out my pistol, the one loaded with bronze bullets. Mab’s restraining hand weighed on my arm.
The demi-demon carried a lidded jar. He held it close to his chest, one hand beneath and one on top, keeping the lid in place. He moved swiftly but carefully, gliding across the street like he didn’t want to shake the jar’s contents.
He’d said something about a jar—told someone he didn’t need it—when he’d tried to kill me.
My God. We were witnessing another Reaper murder.
Beside me, Mab moved to stand up. About halfway to her feet, she gasped and pressed a hand to her back. She cursed softly in Welsh. She yanked out her pendant and grasped the bloodstone with her left hand, murmured some words I didn’t catch, and sprang to her feet. When she hurled a blast of energy at Myrddin, it was like Zeus throwing a thunderbolt.
Myrddin didn’t even turn. He clutched the jar to his chest with one hand and flung out the other toward us, palm out like a traffic cop. A pulsing rectangle of energy met the blast and held it back. Sparks skittered against it. The energy streaming from Mab’s hand sputtered, then failed. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed against the car behind us.
Myrddin made a pushing motion in our direction. The shield sped toward us, accelerating as it came. “Get down!” I yelled. I ducked and curled into a ball on the ground, covering my head with my arms and trying to shelter under the SUV. The energy shield blasted into that vehicle and tossed it into the air. The SUV somersaulted over half a dozen other cars and landed on its roof.
I looked behind me, checking for Mab. She motioned that she was all right. She clasped the bloodstone, preparing for another blast.
I leapt to my feet. The hell with tossing energy around. I had a gun.
Shielding myself behind a van, I popped off three bronze bullets in fast succession. All three struck the target, hitting Myrddin once in the shoulder and twice in the back. The jar dropped from his hands, but he swooped and caught it before it hit the ground. As he moved, he changed. His human flesh split open to reveal ash-gray scales. His features twisted into glowing yellow eyes above a tusked snout. Horns shot forth from his head, leathery wings from his back. And he grew in height—ten, fourteen, eighteen feet.
On Storrow Drive, brakes screeched and metal slammed metal.
Myrddin’s demon form still clutched the jar. It looked like a dollhouse toy in the thing’s monstrous hands. The lid had gone askew, and taloned fingers fumbled to straighten it. I fired again, aiming for the jar, but the demon twisted and the bullet gouged its arm instead. Melting demon flesh dripped from the wound.
Protecting the jar with one hand, the Myrddin-demon pointed toward us with the other and roared. The four figures that surrounded the car simultaneously turned our way. I tried to duck out of their sight, but I wasn’t quick enough. They knew where we were. A creature thumped onto the roof of the van directly in front of us. It crouched there, eyes glowing orange, drool hanging in strings from its fangs. Vampire.
One shot knocked him off the car roof. The bullet was bronze, so it wouldn’t slow him down for more than a minute, but it gave me time to draw my dagger and silver-loaded gun. Another vampire landed on the roof of the car behind us, and two more figures stood between us and Back Street. With a brick wall behind us, we were surrounded.
But I still had a gun.
The second vampire sprang at us. I shot him with silver in midair. His arms and legs pinwheeled, and he hit Mab square in the chest, knocking her onto her back. The vampire, squirming with pain, crumpled in a heap on top of her. Mab stabbed him with her silver dagger and strained to push him off her, but he didn’t budge. She was too weak. He reared back his head and sunk his fangs into Mab’s side. I buried my dagger in his neck, half-turning as I did to face the two who rushed us from the street. I nailed the first with a dead-on head shot. He fell, and his buddy tripped over him. I tracked the fall, aiming at his head. He looked up, terror in his eyes. “Please,” he said, “I’m human.”
I recognized this guy—he was one of the vampire junkies who’d grabbed me in the Zone. He’d shown no mercy then, handing me over to Myrddin and the Old Ones for torture and death. Why should I show any now? My gun didn’t waver.
A tremor shook the human and he vomited in the street.
Something hit me from the side, slamming me against a car so hard my head shattered the driver’s side window. Blood streamed into my eyes, blinding me. A hand grabbed my wrist and banged it, over and over, against the side of the car. Bones cracked. I dropped the gun.
A body leaned into me, pinning me against the car. Fingers tangled themselves in my hair and yanked my head forward. I blinked frantically, trying to clear the blood from my eyes. Fetid breath, rank with grave rot, washed over my face. A hand wiped my eyes, and the vampire I’d shot with bronze came into focus. He sniffed at my cheek. Fast as a snake’s, his tongue flicked out to taste my blood. He pulled back, nose wrinkling. “Shapeshifter,” he said with disgust. Vampires won’t drink the blood of weres or shapeshifters. It makes them lose control of their physical forms, turning them into hybrids of other creatures.
The orange eyes narrowed. “I can still rip out your throat.”
“Do not!” thundered a voice. The vampire’s head snapped to the right. Myrddin, again in his human form, stood over the two humans sprawled on the pavement, holding his jar and looking smug. Blood stained his clothes around several bullet holes, but he held himself as though uninjured. He glanced down at the human who’d pleaded for his life, then gave the prostrate form a vicious kick. “Get up,” he said. The human scrambled to his feet and scuttled behind Myrddin.
Myrddin turned back to the vampire who held me. “No throat-ripping. Not here. I want both of them in the safe house. We’ll use that one to complete the reawakening spell. For this one”—he jerked his chin toward Mab—“I have other plans.” The vampire snarled, but he pulled back.
I looked at Mab. The wounded vampire still pinned her down. She should have been able to lift him off and throw him across Storrow Drive into the Charles, but she struggled under him. She was so weak. I should have made her go home.
The vampire holding me threw me onto the ground and pressed his foot on my neck to keep me there. I landed on something that dug painfully into my shoulder blade. Gravel pressed into my cheek. My broken wrist throbbed. The vampire bent over Mab.
My right hand was useless, and though I tried I couldn’t lever his boot off me one-handed. The lump under my shoulder blade, I thought, was my gun. I groped around on the asphalt for my dagger, but I couldn’t locate it.
The vampire straightened, Mab’s pendant dangling from his hand. He tossed the bloodstone to Myrddin; it sailed over me, chain trailing behind it like a comet.
Mab quit struggling and lay limp on the ground.
“Excellent.” Myrddin giggled behind me, where I couldn’t see him. “Now I wear the bloodstone. How does it look—does it suit me?” His lips made smacking noises. “It’s been a long time since I had a taste of that power. Very nice, old thing. I can even taste the old days.” More smacking. “But dilute. Funny, I thought your power would be richer. I expected vintage wine, but it’s more like small beer. I guess you had me fooled, old girl. Now . . .” His voice darkened. “Speaking of weakness.”
The whimpered response could only be from the terrified human who cringed behind him.
“You groveled before an enemy. You begged for mercy. You are not worthy to serve your masters.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’ll do better. Please—” The man’s words were cut off by an agonized scream. A second later the scream, too, was cut off.
“I cannot abide weaklings,” Myrddin said, as casually as if he were expressing a distaste for broccoli. “Now, you, vampire. I can never remember all these ridiculous vampire names. Pull that silver out of your friend and have him help you remove the two shapeshifters.” A siren sounded in the distance. “Do it quickly.”
The crushing pressure on my windpipe shifted as the vampire stretched to reach the silver knives that impaled his companion. I arched my back a little, just enough to allow some space where my pistol dug in. With my left hand, I reached behind me, feeling for the gun. I touched its grip. If I could move my shoulder a little more . . .
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