Darkwalker: A Tale of the Urban Shaman

by Duncan Eagleson

  “When Dima is in this kind of mood, he’ll be up there all night,” said Sascha.

  “Don’t call him Dima,” Pyotr said.

  “You see? Nothing to worry about. Pyotr is sober enough for all of us.”

  “Sascha is right, though,” said Boris. “Gospodin Dimitri,” he said, using the Russian equivalent of Mister, “will probably be upstairs all night tonight.” The Pivnaya Romanov was one of several establishments owned by Dimitri Igorevich Prokanazov, the crime czar of West Santa Brita. When the czar came to visit on Thursdays, he would retire upstairs with the Romanov’s manager, Sylvia. He frequently did not come down until morning.

  “Who’s minding the store?” asked Ivan. “Yuri and Georgi?” Prokanazov’s bodyguards had come to like Ivan over the last several weeks, and he had become familiar with their routines.

  “Georgi had a family problem to attend to,” Boris said. “Feodor is covering for him.”

  “Georgi is always having family problems,” said Pyotr. “He needs to get his head straight. He could be out on the street.”

  “Pah,” said Sascha. “He’s Dimitri Igorevich’s cousin. No way the czar is going to fire him, no matter how much family trouble he has. Don’t get Ivan’s hopes up.”

  “Ivan has no hopes. He’s too old and fat. He knows that. Don’t you, Ivan?”

  “Hey,” Ivan said. “An old, fat bodyguard is still better than one who’s not there.”

  “You see? He still thinks Dimitri will hire him.”

  “I’m good. Kabanov used to say I was the best.”

  “Used to, that’s the important point.” Pyotr was waving his hands in the air again. “Let the young bulls do that sort of work, tovarisch Ivan. You want to work for Prokanazov, maybe we could find you some errands to run.”

  “I have my pride,” said Ivan. “I’m not a messenger boy. I’m a killer.”

  “Yeah, well, help us kill this bottle, will you?” said Pyotr. “Sascha, deal the cards.

  By midnight Ivan had excused himself and left the Romanov. An hour later he was across town, approaching Prokanov’s mansion. His runabout was parked on the street some yards from the mansion’s gate. But the man who got out did not look like Ivan Raskalov. He looked exactly like Sascha Bylinkin.

  “Sascha, what are you doing here?” Feodor asked.

  “Open up. There was an accident. The fucking guardos impounded the runabout.”

  When the door opened, Sascha drove his knife up under Feodor’s chin and into his brain. He walked the body backwards into the hallway, and then into a closet. He withdrew the knife and closed the closet door. Then he hurried up the wide central stairway.

  He had studied the floor plan of the house, knew where his objective was, and that Yuri would be in the kitchen grabbing a sandwich and a beer. But Yuri would soon be wondering where Feodor was, and why he hadn’t checked in.

  The second floor study was a museum. Display cases held every manner of odd memorabilia. There were many weapons, but also documents, an old-fashioned microphone, a skull, several dirty, worn-looking sports balls of various types, a couple of them signed. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason to the collection, but it was all beautifully displayed, and the cases were alarmed.

  He suspected Yuri would be looking for Feodor about now. He could hear footsteps in the house. He smiled, kicked in the glass of the case before him. He snatched up an elaborate gold ring from its stand, shoved it into his pocket. Listened. He heard nothing, but was sure a silent alarm had been triggered, and now there was a timetable. He stepped to the door, put his back to the wall beside it. Footsteps were hurrying up the stairs. He grinned.

  Pyotr stood by, struggling not to fidget. Dimitri Igorevich Prokanazov was tall and thin, with the mournful countenance of a funeral director and large, bony hands. He stood staring at the broken display case, expressionless. Pyotr could not tell if his stony stare indicated pure disbelief, utter rage, grief, or deep, contemplative thought. Prokanazov finally looked up, scanned the rest of the room.

  “You have got to be shitting at me,” he said. “He breaks into my house, kills Feodor and Yuri, and with all my belongings at his fingertips, my entire collection at his mercy, he takes only this one little piece? Elvis wept, I have the fucking skull of Arcidemus sitting here. Do you know what that would sell for to the right people?”

  Pyotr shook his head. “Maybe he was interrupted—”

  “Nonsense. This is a very strange thief. A fan of Wendell Crichton.”

  “Who?” Pyotr scratched at his ear.

  “A great man from Bay City. Do you know nothing of history?”

  “Not much, I confess.”

  “The ring once belonged to Crichton. Call Murchison. I want a full guard forensics team to scour this place. Everyone is to stay outside until this is done.”

  “I don’t think Murchison...”

  “So squeeze his balls with one hand and offer money with the other. Get it done. And have Katarina call the insurance company.”

  “Oh,” said Pyotr. “Katarina said she saw something.”

  “And you waited until now to tell me this? Send her to me immediately.”

  Varger Caine sat on his bed, staring at the ring in his hand. It dated to before the Takeover, certainly. It was heavy, but made of some base metal and plated to look like gold. It was set with a piece of black resin intended to look like onyx, into which had been embedded rhinestones, or pieces of glass, in the shape of the Crichton Industries logo. Dozens of these cheap things had been given out to Crichton employees and associates. The Father had never touched this ring. The Rusk had been scammed. He thought briefly about returning the ring to the gangster. Then he tossed it into a corner.

  Sascha Bylinkin fought not to whimper or weep. He leaned sideways against the bonds holding him to the chair, but could find no comfortable position. His balls ached, the fingers on his left hand throbbed, the two last fingers pointing at the ceiling like arthritic tree branches. One eye was swollen shut, and his lips felt the size of basketballs.

  “He’s tougher than I would have expected,” said Pyotr.

  “Or telling the damned truth,” said Boris. “Come on. You were there. He was with us the whole time.”

  “You were too drunk to notice if he slipped out. You are calling Katarina a liar?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “So does she.”

  Dimitri Prokanazov raised a hand. “Both stories cannot be true,” he said.

  “Unless,” said a raspy voice, “you have to deal with the oboroten.” Igor Prokanazov, Dimitri’s father, was still big of frame, though stooped by age. He leaned heavily on a stout cane. He shuffled further into the room, gestured at Sascha. “Let this poor bastard go. It’s not his fault.”

  “You can’t be certain,” said his son.

  “You think it’s all stupid legends and superstition? I’ve seen this before. A shapeshifter can look like anyone. Throw suspicion on whoever he wishes.”

  “If that’s true, we’re facing a dead end,” said Prokanazov.

  “Not at all,” said his father. “The oboroten can only copy the shape he knows. He must have gotten close to Sascha. Also, he knew your habits, knew which night you’d be away. Look for someone new, who has become close to you or your men in recent days. He will have been studying you.”

  “Ivan,” said Boris.

  He had originally thought that Ivan Raskalov might become a regular identity, that he might eventually get papers for him and bank accounts. But he was tired of the Russian character. If he dropped it, if the fellow vanished after the theft of the ring, the Rusks might suspect Ivan, but so what? They’d never find him again, and there was nothing to connect him to Guardsman Caine. Still, his curiosity was great. He burned to know what had happen-ed in the wake of the robbery. Prokanazov had to be aware the ring was a cheap piece of junk. Surely he couldn’t believe that City Boss Crichton had ever worn the thing. But he would still be outraged at the violation of his sanc
tum, the killing of his cousin Feodor, the bodyguard Yuri.

  Smiling, he walked to the corner of his room and picked up the ring from where he’d tossed it several nights ago. Yes, he thought, he should return the ring.

  The Ivan Raskalov who entered the Romanov Thursday night was somewhat leaner and harder than he had appeared before. Shifting on the fly could be difficult, and he wanted a head start.

  They were waiting for him, he could tell. The air in the bar prickled at his skin. Prokanazov’s boys were not subtle or deceptive. All the eyes that looked at him as he crossed to the bar were grim.

  Sascha joined him as he ordered his usual. The bodyguard’s face was battered and swollen, his hand wrapped in bandage. “Ivan,” he said, with a patently false smile. “Nice to see you.”

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Little family disagreement,” said Sascha. “Sorted now.” He laid his good hand on Ivan’s shoulder, and Boris appeared on his other side.

  “Come along, Vanya,” Boris said. “Gospodin Prokanazov would like to meet you.”

  “Good,” he said.

  At his side, claws were growing from his fingertips as they escorted him through the kitchen and into a back room.

  The room was a storeroom, boxes and crates piled to each side. In the center stood a wooden chair, a small table next to it. On the table was a collection of instruments. He put a look of concern on his face, though he was smiling inwardly. It was obvious what they intended. There were several knives, some razor blades, a pair of pliers, a soldering iron, and a thing he recognized as a medical bone saw. On a crate nearby were a pair of manacles, several lengths of rope, and a small rubber ball with a cord threaded through a hole in the middle of it. It took him a moment to realize this last item was a gag. Of course they wouldn’t want the Romanov’s customers disturbed by his screams. He stopped, staring at the table of torture implements, and Sascha gave him a shove from behind. At that moment, he heard footsteps.

  “Ivan Mikhailovich,” said a deep voice.

  He turned. Dimitri Prokanazov stood there, staring at him with a cold glare. Behind him, Pyotr bolted the door that led to the kitchen. “I cannot tell you how much I have been looking forward to this meeting,” Prokanazov said. He did not step forward to offer a handshake. “Please, have a seat.”

  “I think I would rather stand, thank you, Gospodin Prokanazov.”

  “But I insist.” At a gesture, Boris and Sascha flanked him, grasping him by the elbows and shoulders. They would have forced him into the chair, but he braced himself, and their efforts produced no more result than if they had tried to move a stone statue. The two Rusks looked at each other in puzzlement. As Pyotr walked forward to join them, Ivan formed his right hand into the spearpoint position and drove it into Boris’ midsection, just below the sternum. His claw penetrated muscle and organs. Boris gasped, unable even to scream. Ivan pivoted, flinging the dying Russian into the approaching Pyotr, blood spraying them both.

  Sascha stared in disbelief, then shook himself and went for his gun. The creature—no longer Ivan; he was morphing and changing into something else—slashed his throat with its bloody claws. Sascha collapsed, gurgling.

  Prokanazov drew out a pistol, but the creature was on him before he could use it. His claws ripped through woolen suit and silk shirt, shredding Prokanazov’s bicep. Prokanazov screamed as the monster bore him to the floor, clapping a hand over his mouth, smothering the scream. His other hand ripped down the gangster’s left arm, leaving both arms now useless.

  The monster that had been Ivan sat astride the crime czar’s chest, one hand covering the man’s mouth, though his scream had now become a whimper. The Russian’s feet beat a weak tattoo on the cement floor.

  “You thought I had something of yours, no?” the creature said in a raspy voice. “You are correct. And I have come to return it to you.” From his pocket he brought out the stolen ring, held it up before the mobster’s frightened eyes. “After all, it is worthless to me. How much did you pay for this trinket, comrade? Whatever you paid, you were scammed. This thing never belonged to Wendell Crichton. It’s nothing but a cheap souvenir.” He shifted his grip, forced the Russian’s mouth open, and jammed the ring down his throat. As the man began to gag and choke, the creature leaned close to him. “Perhaps you can get a refund in hell.”

  20. WOLF

  Of course, I had to sneak past Rok and Morgan. Normally I’d want them with me on this sort of thing, but they’d have tried to prevent me going out, arguing doctor’s orders. I slipped out and rode the elevator down to the first basement level, where the evidence lockup was located. The guard on duty there recognized me, apologized for his colleagues’ assault, and told me how nice the Harvest Blessing had been. I mentally gritted my teeth, smiled, and thanked him as politely as I could, impatient to get something of Mascarpone’s and go looking for some sign of her.

  Rooting through the bin with her possessions, I selected a wristwatch that looked well worn and well loved, and signed it out. Took the stairs back up to street level rather than wait for the elevator. My head was still sore as hell, so I walked slowly and carefully. It took me a while to reach the tram overpass.

  When I reached the overpass at Eighth and Alvarado it was after dark, but still much earlier than the time Suzi Mascarpone had been killed. The neighborhood was mixed residential and business, a bit heavier on the business side, most of the buildings adobe brick or limestone, none over six, maybe seven stories. The elevated tram line ran down a long stretch of Alvarado here, eastbound and westbound tracks spanning the wide street, before curving off to the east, to touch down again on the other side of Seventh Avenue, where the ground began to rise toward the city center. In the opposite direction, past Tenth, the numbers on the avenues would give way to names for a few blocks as they approached the waterfront. There were a few pedestrians, but the place looked pretty much as it would have then: The elevated tram line cast huge, black shadows over the roadways and alleys and empty lots it passed over. I hadn’t been walking particularly fast, but still I slowed as I came close to the site of the murder, the watch I had taken from evidence gripped in my left hand. I walked toward one of those shadows, then stopped, sniffing. Above the dank of the river and the stench of the nearby dumpster, there was a scent of... ginger. Mascarpone used a ginger-scented perfume. The watch seemed to vibrate in my hand.

  I heard a burble of voices, like a group of talking people approaching. Women’s voices. I could smell oranges and burnt hair, felt a buzz like a static charge run through me, and suddenly someone gripped my right arm and pressed something into my hand.

  “Take this,” the woman’s voice said in my ear. “There’s a killer out there on the streets, you know.” I turned, but there was no woman there, only the empty, darkening street. When I looked down, although I could still feel the polished wood and steel, my open palm was empty. I knew exactly what it was, that phantom object. I had held that folding knife with its rosewood grips, which now sat in the same evidence bin where I’d found the watch. I looked up as a tram clattered by overhead. I was staring, seeing my surroundings without registering them. I knew I was looking down the street, at the plascrete columns that supported the tram lines, and several blocks down, there were tiny figures crossing an intersection, but somehow it seemed less real than the high-pitched sound I was hearing like a ringing in my ears, the color of footsteps echoing in the empty street, the sound of the glowing, gray-orange sky above, the feel of the smooth-hard texture of the city night.

  Then I was moving, a disorienting sensation, walking along a different dark street while also standing perfectly still, and I knew I’d contacted some piece of Suzi Mascarpone.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” a voice called out. I looked to my right, but could see nothing, though I could smell sweat and booze, and a hint of weed, mixed with a cloying, sweet aftershave.

  I felt a hand grip my arm again, and a familiar voice said, “You’d best be getti
ng home with no stops along the way.”

  That one was Rainer Auden’s voice. Knowing what sort of thing must be coming, I focused briefly on my own body, my own world, hoping this wouldn’t break the connection, while I groped behind me for one of the plascrete columns of the tram line. As my hand found the cold, rough surface, I was grabbed from behind, a powerful arm coming around from the left. Every instinct screamed that my left hand should be shooting up to block, I should be spinning right, my elbow smashing the assailant’s face, but instead the arm encircled my throat with no trouble. Small hands with lacquered nails shot up to claw ineffectively at the arm for a moment, before one vanished briefly, to reappear with the folding knife. I felt a tearing pain in my abdomen, and a growl said in my ear, “Be pleased, oh, Lady, be pleased.”

  The next few moments were a blur, a cacophony of screams and pain and blood, like being caught in a sensory storm, too many images and feelings rushing through me at once to pick out and focus on any one. It seemed to go on for years... Then...

  Sitting. I was sitting on pavement. My back was against plascrete, I was staring at a dumpster fifty feet away in the open lot next to a decrepit building whose sign offered “Tech Repair.” There was a watch clutched in my sweaty left hand. I was breathing hard, as though I’d just finished a run or been sparring for a long bout. I sat there, getting my breath back, staring at the dumpster. Remembered belatedly to reach for my hara, that point of balance at the center of the physical body, just behind and below the navel. Focused my breathing there until I felt more balanced.

  Gradually it came back. Suzi Mascarpone, member of the Harlot’s Guild, Marilynist, activist. That’s why I was here. She’d been killed on this spot, and I’d just felt that death. That’s what all the blood and pain and screaming had been. I wondered if I’d actually screamed aloud. Looked around to find the streets around me still empty. Well, mostly empty. At one end of the block a Latino guy was walking a dog. He didn’t even glance in my direction. I watched him disappear around the corner onto Ninth. If I had made any sound, it apparently hadn’t attracted any attention.