Mongrel

by K. Z. Snow

  Simon rubbed his jaw. “I suppose I deserved what I got.” He sighed deeply and glanced around. “I’ve just about had my fill of this place for one day.”

  “Why do you come here? I mean, aside from calling on people you want to bed.” The question had been bouncing around the back of Will’s mind. He hadn’t thought to ask before now. At first, Simon’s attention had flattered and excited him beyond the point of curiosity. Later, their trysts hadn’t included much conversation of any sort. “What business do you have with Hunzinger? You seem to visit his office fairly regularly.”

  Simon shifted his jaw around, probably testing its soreness. “The old man contacts Pushbin, who contacts Herkel at T and J, who tells me I have an appointment.” He slid Will a guilt-tinged glance. “And those are appointments I keep.”

  Will paid closer attention. “What do you discuss?”

  “Sometimes the old man asks about individuals I’ve apprehended. Sometimes he asks about Branded Mongrels, like if I’ve noticed a connection between certain physical traits and certain kinds of behavior.”

  “But… why?”

  “He said my experience and insights help him train his own security force.” Simon shrugged. “I don’t give a Tersikan’s tail, as long as I’m compensated for my time.”

  A feeling of unease rippled through Will. Too many dirty pieces were converging, like scraps of garbage collecting around a sewer grate. He had to find out more. He had to help the Eminence of Taintwell—his modest, imperious, affectionate, troubled, and altogether beguiling friend and lover—find out more.

  Because, Will was certain, something evil was afoot.

  AFTER Fanule tore up his shirt to make a combination tourniquet and bandage for Twigby Hartshorn’s gashed arm, he half buried the Mongrel in a weedy dune. They weren’t able to speak—Hunzinger’s men, even deprived of their lamps, continued to scour the area just beyond the Gutter—but it was clear something worse than an accident had befallen Twig. He quaked beneath Fanule’s ministering hands, his wide eyes glazed with terror.

  “Lie still and don’t make a sound,” Fanule whispered close to Twig’s ear. “We’ll get out of here when the Strongarms are gone.”

  Before he could burrow into the dune beside Twig, Marrowbone swept silently from the sky. He’d apparently had no trouble homing in on Fanule and Twigby, since his senses were immeasurably more acute than humans’.

  “Where would you like to go?” he asked, the picture of preternatural serenity.

  “Take Twig to Lizabetta’s cottage and me, home. Thank you, Cl—”

  Before Fanule could fully voice his gratitude, he felt the headless sensation that accompanied vampiric flight. Marrowbone had simply plucked him and Twigby from the sand and shot into the sky.

  Dizzy and breathless, Fanule struggled to stay upright when he was again on solid ground. Very little time had passed. He blinked hard and approached Lizabetta’s door. As soon as it opened to his touch, Marrowbone hastily carried the wounded Mongrel to the sofa and laid him on his back.

  “Tend to him, please,” Fanule said as Lizabetta’s head floated toward him. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Before Fanule’s eyes had even had a chance to focus properly, he was airborne again. Marrowbone dumped him rather unceremoniously beside a hydrangea bush whose flowerheads nodded near his front stoop. Head reeling, Fanule stumbled to the door. He snatched up the newspaper that lay before it.

  Light had begun to creep through a rent at the horizon. Poor Clancy must’ve been frantic to beat the dawn back to his secret sanctuary.

  Exhausted, Fanule dropped into an overstuffed chair and let his throbbing head rest in his upraised hand. Outside, Cloudburst whinnied in his stall.

  “Sorry, my man, you’ll have to wait for your other friend.”

  The local girl Fanule had hired to ride and tend to Cloudburst would be there shortly. She adored the horse and gave him more doting attention than Fanule could.

  He opened the paper that lay on his lap, but his tired eyes and spinning mind couldn’t seem to absorb the words. Instead, all the things he needed to do clamored for his attention. He must do more investigating, stay on top of Pushbin, spend time with William, socialize with Marrowbone, have a talk with Bentcross, spend more time with William, question Twigby and get him to a place of safety, and spend still more time with William. And eat, bathe, take his medicine, and tend to the concerns and disputes of his fellow Taintwellians.

  A mountain seemed to be sliding onto his shoulders.

  As the sun rose and birds chirped, his spirits sank and sighed.

  Fanule forced himself to read the newspaper. He also needed to stay abreast of events in Purinton. The simplest, most sanitized article could carry significant meaning between its lines.

  Only, he hadn’t anticipated the brief notice tucked among the many crime reports on the second-to-the-last page, preceding the municipal announcements.

  Murder. Male vagrant, name unknown, approximate age 40 years, found shot to death in City Center alley behind Skipskin Mews.

  It had happened on Saturday night. There were no suspects.

  A sob balled in Fanule’s throat.

  “IT’S me, William,” Will said into the voxbox. “Please answer.”

  He stood in a booth near the arched entrance gate to the Mechanical Circus, now ablaze with lights. Visitors milled around at his back. He heard the rustle of women’s skirts, the tread of countless feet, the barking of vendors against a monotonous backdrop of lighthearted music. Safer to talk here, Will figured, than in the Gutter’s dining tent. No one noticed him here. He was part of the crowd.

  “Please answer.”

  He imagined a tinny version of his voice squawking throughout Fan’s house. Beyond that, he tried not to imagine anything.

  He’d received no word from or about Fan since Marrowbone had gone in search of him some sixteen hours earlier. Or was it eighteen? Will hadn’t taken note of the time, but it felt like an eternity since Fan had disappeared from his wagon and been swallowed up by the darkness.

  “Fan, are you there?”

  Will found ignorance unbearable. Any news was preferable to no news.

  “Who is this?”

  The unfamiliar voice jolted Will. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, you’re the man I met last night. I recognize your voice. This is Marrowbone.”

  “What… what’s going on? Did you find Fan? Is he all right?”

  “Yes, I found him. And the Mongrel, too. Fan isn’t hurt but the other fellow is.”

  What Mongrel? Will wondered. “So, where is he? Why didn’t he answer my call?”

  Marrowbone hesitated. “Fan’s sleeping. A healer is looking after the injured man. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know your name.”

  “Will. Fan calls me William. Why is he in bed so early?”

  Another pause. “I’m afraid he’s having one of his low spells.”

  Will squeezed his eyes shut. No, oh no. He knew what he had to do. “I’ll be there as quickly as possible.”

  He was about to disconnect when Marrowbone said, “You might want to know this before you leave. He thinks somebody is out to kill him.”

  Will bolted away from the vox booth. No matter if Fan’s belief was a specter born of his current mood or a solid fact, he couldn’t be alone. Fan had no family. His neighbors were probably unaware of his condition. Marrowbone would be of no help come daylight.

  He can’t be alone.

  As Will dashed past the concert hall, someone grabbed the back of his jacket. Arms flailing, he pitched forward to counter the pull and keep from falling.

  “Come here.”

  Now he was being yanked to one side. By Simon Bentcross. The sound of Simon’s voice, which didn’t allow for protest, made Will go along with him. Simon’s head turned this way and that as his suspicious gaze sifted through the surrounding river of people.

  They ended up on a bench beneath a bower covered in rugosa roses and wintercreeper v
ines.

  “It’s raining shit,” Simon said, thrusting a piece of paper at Will.

  Will gave him a curious look before studying the flyer. As he did so, Simon kept talking.

  “I just came from a meeting with the old man, the head of his security force, two muckamucks from the Enforcement Agency, and five other bounty hunters. The individual who was being chased last night—a Branded Mongrel, from the looks of it—apparently got away.”

  Will immediately recalled what Marrowbone had said: “I found him. And the Mongrel, too. Fan isn’t hurt but the other fellow is.” The flyer made it clear that capture of this fugitive, a 15:85 named Twigby Hartshorn, was imperative. Whether he was brought in alive or dead didn’t matter.

  “What did he do?” Will asked, although his thoughts were trained on other questions.

  “That’s just it,” Bentcross said, jabbing a forefinger at the paper. “No crime is mentioned. Just ‘escaped from custody’.”

  Will scanned the paper again. Simon was right. “How does this concern me?”

  Simon leaned toward him to speak more confidentially. “Because of what isn’t on that flyer. First, that Gutter residents are going to be questioned about what they saw, which means you’re going to be questioned. Second, that two rather unusual men were in your company last night and also witnessed the chase, and you don’t know if any of your neighbors might’ve seen them. Third, that certain important persons would like the Eminence of Taintwell brought in for ‘questioning’—although, oddly enough, they want as few people as possible to know about it and insist the Eminence be taken by surprise when he’s alone.”

  Will stared at Bentcross, anxiety plucking at his nerves. “Why do they want to question Fan?”

  “I don’t know. But I got the feeling they consider him more than a nuisance now.”

  “They want to be rid of him,” Will said, his voice thin and brittle.

  Simon’s brows contracted. “I think so.”

  “Is there any kind of reward for bringing him in?”

  The answer was written on Simon’s troubled expression, in the way his tongue crept out and skated over his lips. “Yes. A large one.”

  “Are you going to hunt him?”

  Simon shook his head. The movement was deliberate, emphatic. “No.”

  Will could tell he was being truthful. Never had Simon looked so grave. Sadness filled his eyes.

  “Do these important persons know Clancy Marrowbone is back?” Will asked.

  “I doubt it. Otherwise they certainly would’ve mentioned him.” Simon smiled, and in a very uncharacteristic way—with a touch of fondness. “He’s quite legendary, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Under the circumstances, the only thing about Marrowbone that mattered to Will was how effectively he could help protect Fan. “Did the men you met with seem to know I had… guests last night?”

  “No. I’m sure they would’ve brought that up, too, if they’d been aware of it. In fact, you would’ve been pulled in for questioning well before now.”

  It made sense. “Thank you for the information. It was very thoughtful of you to share it with me. If there’s nothing else, I really must go now.” Will rose from the bench.

  “Where?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you’re going someplace other than your wagon, I can take you there. My aeropod is in the south lot.”

  Will hesitated, wondering if the bounty hunter was capable of using him as a pawn. He didn’t think so. Simon Bentcross might’ve been many things, some of them none too admirable, but he did adhere to his own code of honor. And he had a face that concealed nothing.

  “I have to go to my wagon first,” Will said. “Do you mind waiting?”

  Simon got up. “Not if you don’t mind trusting me. And by the way”—he squeezed Will’s shoulder—“thank you for that.”

  Chapter Nine

  WILL sat on the edge of a bed in a shadowy room in a modest wood-and-rubblestone house in Taintwell. The head that lay on the pillow was distinctively recognizable, even in the waning light of a single, sputtering candle. Will leaned toward the spill of black curls, the stark jaw and cheekbones, the patrician nose.

  “Fan, it’s me. Will.” He gently swept a drift of hair off Fan’s temple and kissed the damp skin. As he did so, he thought of the ravaged ear just an inch away from his lips.

  Heavily, Fan opened his eyes. “William?”

  “Yes.” Will smiled and resumed petting Fan’s hair. The candlelight occasionally drew out its purple highlights.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You invited me. Remember?”

  Fan began to stir, a good sign. His hand rose and rested on Will’s thigh.

  “I never thought you’d come to Taintwell.”

  “I never did either. But now, I think I prefer it to the Circus.”

  As if his body were hung with lead shot, Fan sat up and rested his head in his hands. “I’m afraid I’m in no condition to satisfy you.”

  “I am satisfied. I’m not here because I expect to be pleasured.”

  Fan tilted his head to face Will. “Then why…?”

  “Because I care about you. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  Those spellbinding eyes continued to regard him. They were duller than Will had ever seen them.

  “Why do you care about me?” Fan asked. “There’s nothing to care about, William.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ.”

  And now, a telltale sheen. Tears were rising. “I’ve been no good to anybody, not even myself. For godssake, I can’t even look after my own horse. Yet so many people need help. So many. And I’ve been useless to them.” Fan’s breath hitched, and he pulled his fingers over his eyes. “An innocent man was killed because of me. A miserable wretch who thought I was an angel.”

  Although Will had no idea what Fan was talking about, he gathered his broken lover into his arms. Fan clutched the sleeves of Will’s shirt like a drowning man. Face buried in Will’s shoulder, he crumbled beneath the weight of his mysterious grief.

  “You’ll come out of this on the other side,” Will murmured into Fan’s hair. “And I’ll wait until you do. If you need my help when you start helping others, and I’ve no doubt you will help others, I’ll be there for that too. I promise you, Fan, I’ll aid you in any way I can.”

  It was like comforting his mother again… yet far different and, perhaps, more meaningful. This was a connection Will had chosen and cultivated; it hadn’t been thrust on him. He refused to break that connection through cowardice and self-interest. Not just because he truly cared for Fanule Perfidor, but because something was wrong with Purinton. A canker was spreading. And it seemed to be rooted in Alphonse Hunzinger.

  Fan withdrew and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know why I’m this way, William,” he said in a cracked voice. “I don’t understand it, so I’ve no idea how to alter it.” His hands fell to his lap.

  Will lightly rubbed Fan’s left thigh. “You might never. You might have to accept that it’s part of who you are. And it isn’t as if you’re under siege by this condition all the time, is it?”

  “No. The mania comes and goes. The melancholy comes and goes. But I never know when to expect them.”

  “What’s important, I think, is seeing beneath them and realizing they don’t define you.” Will leaned toward Fan and gently kissed the side of his face. He had a notion of what qualities did define this extraordinary man, but he wanted to discover more. The effort, he was sure, would be worth it.

  Someone rapped softly on the bedroom door. “Who else is here?” Fan asked, lifting his head.

  Will got off the bed. “Two of your friends, one old and one new. It’s all right.” He smiled over his shoulder as he opened the door. “I think we’ve got a dedicated little band of revolutionaries forming.”

  “Do we really?” said a sallow figure that could only be Marrowbone. He held a stoneware mug full of steaming liquid. “That’s g
ood to hear. I need a cause. Along with energetic coupling, it’s the best antidote for ennui.” He held the mug out to Will. “Get him to drink this. It should help.”

  “Clancy,” Fan called from the bed, “is that you?”

  The vampire peered past Will. “At your service, Eminence.”

  “Who else is here?”

  “He’s actually outside, waiting to be invited in.”

  “Well, who is it?”

  Marrowbone’s deceptively ordinary-looking mouth crawled into a smile.

  “Take your medicine first. Now if you’ll excuse me….” With a slight bow, Marrowbone turned and fluidly strolled away.

  Will carried the warm drink to the bed. Fan now sat with his legs angled over the side, his shoulders slumped.

  “Who was he talking about?” Fan asked.

  “You’ll find out if you leave this room.” Will sat beside him. “Right now, though, you’re to drink this.”

  “I can’t bear the thought of that taste.”

  “If this helps you, you must take it. Don’t act like a child.” Will lifted the mug and sniffed. It didn’t smell nearly as foul as Dr. Bolt’s elixir. “Here. I’m not leaving until you finish.”

  The weak seed of a smile touched Fan’s lips. “Then I’ll never finish.” Still, he took the mug.

  Another swell of feeling rolled through Will. This man wanted him there, and the wanting had nothing to do with his body. Not at the moment, anyway. No one since Uncle Penrose had sought his company for any reason other than sexual engagement or profit.

  Slowly but surely, Fan drank his tonic.

  “WHAT the hell is he doing here?” Fanule turned from the window. The sight of Simon Bentcross tapping cigar ashes onto his hydrangea bush helped shake him out of his torpor.

  “He gave me a ride,” Will said. “His aeropod is in the field behind your barn.”

  “If I can trust him,” added Marrowbone, “surely you can.”

  Fanule stared at the vampire, who sat with careless elegance in a corner of the sofa. He recalled the sounds that had come from beneath Will’s wagon last night, the mingled voices he’d heard when he’d slipped outside.