“Why can’t I be his favorite?” The Queen lifted Carla off her feet, shaking her. Her vision spun. “Why can’t I be anyone’s favorite? Why is it always you? You little capitalist shit!” She flicked her wrist, and a spur of bone emerged, razor-sharp and tinged with crimson. “First Sweetwater, now you. Someone else always takes my rightful place! Perhaps if I remove you…” She grinned, with the mad logic of it all. “Perhaps there will be room for me, at last.”
“Woah, woah!” Carla was forced to think quick—if she wanted to live, it was time to lie like she’d never lied before. “Look, Buda told me you would be here. He told me this would happen! He saw it!”
The Queen paused. “He… he confided in you?”
She nodded. “I see it now—Mithras guided me, from the very beginning. But he didn’t tell me what happens next. He said you would know. Buda said you were the… the child of Mithras. His successor.”
“He said that… about me?” To Carla’s amazement there were genuine tears in the woman’s eyes. The fire of crushed automobiles and broken streetlights setting corpses ablaze, lit her face with the warm glow of relief. “He loved me, then. He really loved me.”
What a sap, Carla thought. “Yes. The, um, the mantle passes to you. So let me—”
But Aleksandra’s hand tightened around Carla’s neck, fingers claws squeezing against her arteries. “If I am chosen… there is no more use for you.” She squeezed and squeezed, bloodthirsty delight on her face. “I can kill you at last.”
No. Not like this. Not like this!
The fear of death in her, Carla kicked and gagged—but the woman was half Myth, and full of Rage. Her tiny body was nothing compared to the mass of muscle now choking the life from her.
But Aleksandra was feeling something—perhaps for the first time. Pure, genuine joy. And it was like catnip, to the monsters around them. Shapes rose from the smoke, attracted by her triumph: it wasn’t their favorite flavor, but after being hollowed out by Palmer, they’d take anything they could find.
Carla saw them coming… and went limp.
Please. Please, oh God, please… The blade hovered over her eye, Aleksandra’s arm pulling back as she sent up a fervent prayer to her dead leader.
“Thank you, Father. Thank you—” Two drained men seized the Soldier, dragging her down to the cobbles. Carla’s knees smacked the pavement and she sprinted away, gasping, as Aleksandra screamed and stabbed at her attackers.
“No! No!”
The bony blade sliced through flesh, punctured lungs and organs. But the Drained felt no pain. They bore her down under their weight… and lowered their horrid faces to feed.
Carla rubbed her throat, air wheezing in and our of her. It’s fine. She’s… She’s just a rube. She deserved this.
It’s fine.
But she didn’t stay around, to watch the horror play out; instead, she ran towards the North End, as fast as her tiny legs could carry her.
CHAPTER 15
SPRINGFIELD SAVINGS had been stripped of every dollar. Emboldened, Gus and his crew raced towards their next target, no longer bothering to hide. Why bother? It was clear that crime was the least of Boston’s concerns, tonight.
The crowds were thicker, closer to the Common: the panic had spread. Their “fire trucks” rolled on Tremont Street, and at last Gus ordered them to cover the guns. Police squad-cars whooped and screeched towards the madness a quarter-mile away; their presence brought a farce of order to the situation, and a firefight now would mean abandoning their profits.
They stopped outside the Church of Saint Paul, its Greek columns rising into the smoky night. On either side, businesses and rich tenements sat shuttered. Sparks floated through the air, creating a second set of constellations.
Rose felt that emptiness was very close, now. Heavy footfalls boomed from the north. It’s here. Somewhere nearby. I don’t know where… but it’s here.
“Let’s go, boys!” Gus leapt from the truck, his feet cracking the marble steps of the church above them. Rose looked at it with awe and a little disgust: Lucas’s parish was pretty, but modest. By contrast, St. Paul’s was decorative to a repulsive degree, its Athenian architecture and fancy plaques flanking a huge entrance.
“Boss,” said Frank cautiously. “I thought you said we were hitting banks?”
“I said we were taking the city,” said Gus, turning to grin at them. “I meant that literally.”
“But… but there’s no money here.”
Gus laughed… and pointed up. “Doesn’t have to be. Look!”
They looked. The gilded dome of the Church’s roof, gleaming even at midnight, stood twenty-five feet off the ground overhead. The crew glanced at each other.
Rose snorted. “We’re stealing the gold from the dome? Even for you, Gus, this is stupid.”
“Think so? How long would it take to wire and blow every bank in town?” He tapped his watch. “Too long. Easier to take down the fancy bullshit the city’s put up, and sell it later. Besides, this has got more style.”
“It’s got visibility, is what it’s got.” Rose looked around, nervous. “The sun’s coming up soon. Someone’s going to notice!”
“Let ‘em! That’s what I brought guns for.” He pulled a footlocker from his truck and kicked it open. Inside were grappling hooks, and what looked like a set of shipwright’s tools. “Start climbing, boys! There’s enough gold up there to let you all retire!”
The whole crew stared at him. The Myth’s smile faded, and he flicked the safety off on his Thompson. “I said… Start climbing.”
His voice dropped several octaves, down to the very borders of human hearing. Rose heard it in her marrow, and suddenly she felt illogically compelled to obey. It was the voice of of money, of power, the voice of every boss with a wad of dollars in his pocket and a contract in his hand. It was the voice of the dollar.
That’s not Gus, anymore. Something else is running the show inside him.
She tried to remember the night she’d become a Host. She’d lost most of it to the Humours obliterating her memory, but apparently she’d done things, gone places. Was Gus even aware, right now, of what he was doing? Or had the Greed dug so deep into him that he was merely its puppet?
Would the same happen to her, with all these Humours inside her skin?
She was distracted from her fears when several cops rolled up the street, riding motorcycles. Their whole gang froze in mid-heist.
The head sergeant clambered off his bike, his hand on his gun. “Evening, folks... What’s going on here?”
Rose frowned. Even with the city burning around them, the law didn’t know enough to mind its own business. These jack-wits could be off saving people, and instead they’d stopped here, ready to start a firefight with zero understanding of what they were dealing with. It would be a slaughter.
“We’re Public Works,” said Rose.
The head cop stopped short, boots caked with road-dirt. “You’re… what?”
“Yeah. Public Works,” she said. “We’re doing maintenance. On the dome.”
He snorted. “You’re kidding.”
The other cops were reaching for their guns. We have three seconds, she thought, before Gus starts shooting. I can do better than this. I need to do better.
So she tried something she’d never tried before: she reached out and Twisted all of their emotions, at once. It was very complicated. Each man was a swirling mass of individual thoughts and feelings, and she had to pick and choose the ones she needed and then shift them around, while maintaining focus. And grabbing one emotion for everyone wouldn’t do it—they were too different, in temperament and history. She had to tailor her approach, adding a whole new dimension to the problem.
In the head cop, the sergeant, she Twisted boredom. He was sick of this job, he hated it, and she could use that. In the man behind him, she Twisted impatience. And in the half-dozen men behind him, she Twisted everything else.
Fear, exhaustion, confusion, distrust, and
denial. By the time she was done, she felt dizzy, ready to pass out… but the standoff was broken. Nobody drew, nobody fired. The cops looked rattled and confused.
The gang glanced at each other. Their enemy was broken, torn apart by fear or paranoia. These police were no longer a crack squad ready to mow down criminals: they were confused, scared or suspicious little men who didn’t feel like tangling with a whole bunch of fellows in fedoras, not to mention a Myth.
Come on. Just let it go. Tears brimmed in her eyes. I don’t want to see any more killing. Please… Just let it go.
The head cop shrugged. “You… Alright. Be careful—we’ve got reports of some kind of creature, down by the river.”
“Take care, Officer,” she said.
She watched the cops re-mount their bikes and ride towards the river, eyes glazed. The one whose paranoia she’d stirred broke from the group and rode for home; the others didn’t seem to notice, consumed by their own emotions.
“Shit,” said Lucas. “You’re getting good at this.”
“Yeah.” She turned to find Gus descending the steps, his numerous teeth on display.
“Rose, that was aces. You keep that up and we’re gonna be rich. All of us.” His shark-like grin faltered, as doubt grew in him. “You can keep it up, right?”
She turned away. “I… I need some space. Just for a minute. Please.”
“Of course. Anything you want.” He turned on his men, waving a hand. “You heard the lady, piss off! You got five minutes, Rose. If any more cops come… we’ll deal with ‘em. My way.”
She had a feeling she knew what that meant. Feeling unreal, dream-like, she moved down the sidewalk to rest on a rusted fire hydrant. Lucas stayed by the trucks; he knew the thugs would just drag him back, if he tried to go to her. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, like the world was closing in on her.
I tried to go straight, this time. I really did.
But had she? The minute Gus called, she’d been ready to take that job—one way, or another. If she’d just stood her ground…
Then he would have showed up with his men, and forced me into it. You know how this goes—don’t be naïve.
But he hadn’t need to. Rose had jumped back into the fray, so afraid of “real” life and working out her feelings with Lucas she’d dumped it all, first chance she got. Gus was right: honest living didn’t suit her. She was a criminal, right down to the bone.
Something shifted, in her peripheral vision. It was a stooped man in a three-piece suit: he was buttoning his shirt in a shop window, straightening a long white beard. He didn’t seem worried that the houses across the park had caught fire, their rooftops flickering. In the distance, the real fire brigade’s bells had finally begun to sound. If they were lucky, she thought, they might even save some lives tonight.
The man moved closer, pulling his hat down, doing the same collar-straightening routine in the next window. And the next. He was far too close to Gus and the gang, she thought. If one of them got jumpy, they’d waste him in a hot second.
She stepped off her hydrant, and moved towards him.
“Hey… You there, mister. Y’ought to leave.”
He turned, and that familiar sense of wrenching emptiness came at her, that sense of hunger without a name or a face. The man was Palmer. His hollow eyes were framed by a concerned, almost bewildered expression; he’d shattered the garment store window next to him, and was struggling to finish buttoning the stolen shirt over a writhing tentacle extruding from his chest. The giant legs and tendrils were gone… but something else bulged under his shirt, heaving and wriggling.
“Excuse me, madam. I seem to be… somewhat out of sorts.”
It changes shape. Of course: Anarchy isn’t always a single, solid thing. That’s why the cops haven’t killed it.
It can change shape.
His voice was flat, empty of feeling, but there was something there: an aimless, hopeless search for identity.
“C-could you assist me?” he said, plaintive. “I don’t wish to be indecent...”
“Jesus…” She backed away. Behind her, she heard the slap of shoes against the pavement. Palmer paused, cocking his head.
“Stay back,” she said, holding up a hand. There was nothing in him to Twist—just that hollow, crawling anger, the one that didn’t belong to him. She had no power over that, no power at all. If he went back to his old shape now…
“Was it something I s-s-said?” His mouth opened wide, and pure Rage poured out, smoking and sizzling. Gallons of it, vomiting onto the pavement, far more than his small body could possibly hold. He spoke around it, gurgling, repeating himself. “Something I said? Something I said? Something I, something I…”
“Rose, get away!” Lucas grabbed her arm, and a shot rang out. It was so sudden, so brutally close, she thought when she blinked that it had killed her. But it hadn’t.
It’d killed Lucas.
A red hole sprouted in his chest. Frank Wallace stood on the sidewalk, a Remington smoking in his hand. He lowered it, looking ashamed.
“Boss said not to run,” he said, morbid, as Lucas slumped into Rose’s arms. “He… He said to shoot you, if you run. You shouldn’t have run.”
“FRANKIE!”
Frank turned just in time to see Gus bearing down on him, all golden scales and billowing coat.
“Boss—”
“Frankie, you stupid shit!”
The gangster threw up his hands. “You told me too, Boss, you said it yourself, don’t let ‘em run, if they run we gotta…”
“It was a bluff, asshole.” A white-hot light grew behind the Myth’s teeth. “There’s no place at my table for idiots. You’re fired.”
“Boss, no!”
Gus opened his maw wide. A white-hot stream of flame bloomed from his throat, consuming Frank in pale fire; he became a pillar of heat, staggering and screaming before falling to the sidewalk in a pile of ash. His gun crisped and melted, the ammo cooking off in a volley of sharp bangs.
Rose didn’t see any of this. She was too busy. Tearing strips of cloth from her shirt, she tried to staunch the blood, which was everywhere—pouring around shattered ribs. Lucas’s heart had been pierced by the round, too close to be anything but a killing shot. Her thoughts were a spiraling jabber of denial and refusal.
He can’t go. God, please, he can’t go—we were going to fix things. The church, we still need to fix the gutters, he can’t go. It’s not time yet—
But he was going. His blood soaked her hands as he looked up at her. That lean, joyful face was slack and staring. “This too, shall pass,” he said. Then she felt his fear and love go away, somewhere she couldn’t reach. Somewhere nothing could reach.
She sank to the pavement, screams ripping out of her. Palmer looked at her, curious—and then the God-Host inside him sensed her misery and burst from his scalp.
Impossible amounts of sinewy flesh lurched and sprouted from his skull. The tendrils slammed into the garment shop and dug furrows in the asphalt, grasping masses of pulpy meat struggling to balance the new mass. The Host was hungry, and Rose’s sorrows were a feast.
“Rose,” said Gus, face contorted as he approached, “I’m sorry. I didn’t… Christ, it was just a fucking bluff. I wasn’t gonna—”
“Get away from him!” She Twisted hard and Gus felt his claws shrink back into his body, his teeth loosen. He backed away; he cared about his former partner, in his own selfish fashion. But his new form was his only defense against a vicious and deadly world. Any threat to it, he could not abide.
Of course, there were other things he couldn’t abide too.
He turned to Palmer. “You. You fucking cockroach!”
The thing straightened itself, staggering upright, tentacles waving and slack Palmer-mouth screeching.
Gus stomped towards it. “I was trying to do my buddy a favor—make her some goddamn retirement money. And you fucked it up for us.”
He reached for a fire hydrant, the metal squealing as he pul
led it from the street, and hurled it at Palmer’s starch-suited frame.
Wham. The hydrant knocked the thing off-balance, and it tumbled into the street, many legs scrabbling. The impact was deafening—in the tunnels of Park Street Station below, dust shook off the ceiling and rats scattered.
Gus pulled a wheel off one of his trucks, and hurled it. The Host batted it aside, and it wrapped around a signpost. “I’m done with your zombie-voodoo horseshit! You hear me?”
“Boss,” said one of the men on the wall, “Maybe we should run—”
“Ah, shaddap!” Gus waved him away, and his men fell back, their courage gone. “Look, Mitchell.” He grasped at one of the fumbling legs, as big around as a tree trunk, and fought to snap it off. “There’s only room for one Myth in this town—”
The Host swung one enormous limb, and smashed Gus into the air, sending him flying into Boston Common. He had a brief, beautiful view of the sun rising over the harbor, before his arc took him back to earth.
Son of a bitch—
He crashed into the gazebo bandstand, at the center of the Common. It collapsed on top of him, and for a long time, there was only silence… and pain.
Rose… Damn it all.
I’m sorry.
CHAPTER 16
ROSE WAS slippery with blood, doused in water from a gushing hydrant pipe. Everything seeped out into the sidewalk, running in rivers down the street, into the sewer. Blood from Lucas’ wound joined it. Her lover’s whole life, mixing with water and shit and hookworm larvae and the remnants of last week’s Globe, running down the drain. The person in her arms was no longer a person. It was no longer Lucas. It was a corpse.
Rose went a little insane.
The only good thing she’d ever had, the only pure thing, had been taken away. It was like some linchpin had been pulled out of her soul. She let him slide into the sidewalk, and stood up, her runner’s clothes awash with blood.
With a single furious Twist, she turned all the surviving gangsters into Myths.
It wasn’t a conscious decision. Pure emotional agony, unadulterated and sickening-sweet, raced through her. She wanted everyone to share that pain—everyone in the city. The men around her screamed, shredding through clothes, before bursting out of them with howls of glee. Men in suspenders and ties turned into trolls, or minotaurs, or ogres with scarlet skin and goring horns. They ran wild, scattering, smashing through the Church’s columns, capering along Tremont and escaping into the Common.
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