by J. K. Beck
Still, she felt a twinge of guilt. With a great deal of mental force, she quashed it. She needed to remember who she was--the new human prosecutor on a high-profile case. Her boss was expecting a seasoned advocate. One who knew how to play the game, not shrink back at breaches of etiquette.
And she was that girl. She hadn't made it to the top of her law school class without a competitive edge. And she had a feeling she wouldn't have been selected to work at Division without that trait, either.
If Montegue wanted to argue that Luke had fed off Annie to save himself, then Montegue could damn well raise that as an affirmative defense. She ran her fingers through her hair and nodded toward Doyle's PDA. "Okay. 124
Good. This goes a long way toward establishing the element of danger to the community. But risk of flight's harder. He came back to Division of his own accord."
"With a stake strapped to his chest."
"True," Sara acknowledged. "But it'll be there during his bail term as well."
"So we put on evidence suggesting that given more time he would have found a way to remove it. Three hours wasn't enough. But three days? Three weeks? A guy like Dragos, he must have connections that could pull that off." Sara nodded. "Right. So we suggest to the court that he's looking to shake loose of the countermeasures. Couple that with the evidence about Annie, not to mention the signet ring, the DNA, and your vision. With all that, I think the court will surely deny bail."
Doyle leaned back, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Huh."
"What? You disagree?"
"Nope. We're good. Just surprised is all."
"By?"
"You. Didn't figure you had the balls to go after him." She lifted her brows. "And I didn't figure you had the balls to admit you were wrong, so maybe we're even. But speaking of balls, you ever come at me in attack mode again, Doyle, and I will nail your balls to the wall." She smiled, wide and flirty. "We're clear?"
He let out a guffaw, just as she'd expected he would. She'd spent years with hardass detectives, and she knew a thing or two about the care and feeding of same.
"You're not a pushover," he said. "That's good. You last a month in the basement, I'll buy you lunch." He stuck out his hand.
She closed her hand over his. "You're on."
"My eyes are going to fall right out of my head soon," Sara said, looking up from the papers spread across her desk as J'ared floated in. No last name, simply J'ared, and he was a poltergeist who had, in a move that had caused a terrible rift in his family, decided to forego the family tradition of prankstering for a more subdued career in the law. It was to Sara's great credit, she thought, that she'd taken that announcement in stride.
"I know a daemon who did that," J'ared said. "The eye thing, I mean. Big hit at parties. Huge." He glided to one of Sara's guest chairs and sat down, which was to say he hovered a few inches above the seat and tucked his legs under him. Or appeared to. As he'd explained earlier that day, his actual form was visible only to poltergeists. Other creatures visualized him in a form similar to their own.
She wasn't entirely sure how he was able to read and write, since the hands she saw had no substance, but apparently her understanding of metaphysics was faulty, because he was more than able to curve his fingers around a pencil or tap out a sentence on a word processor. More than that, his tapping was brilliant. His family might be mortified by his choice of profession, but Sara was thrilled to be working with him. Though she'd met him only that morning, Martella or Bosch must have given him a heads-up, because she'd been greeted by two stacks of paper on her desk, both provided by J'ared. On the left, a draft brief in support of Division's 125
Opposition to Defendant's Motion to Set Bail. On the right, all the case law relevant to both the motion and the opposition.
All in all, a huge help, and she'd dug right in, the rhythm of the law helping her find her center and cling to the familiar in a decidedly new world.
"You'll take care of filing our briefs and making sure the evidence is labeled and organized?"
"Sure," he said, tapping out a note to himself. "Now we just need--" A sharp knock interrupted them, and Sara looked up to see Nostramo Bosch standing in the doorway. "A human child was discovered in Echo Park a few minutes ago."
"Stemmons?" she asked, her chest tight with dread.
"Apparently so." Bosch said. "An Alliance Seer has confirmed his scent." She was already up and at the door. "A Seer?" she asked. From what she'd read the creatures were extremely rare, and there were none on the Division 6 staff. "Is that usual?"
"It's not," he said, "but if the Alliance wants to send help, we'll hardly turn them away. This is a county/Division matter because of the evidence that vampires assisted Stemmons's breakout," he said as they moved swiftly down the hall, Martella in step beside them. "You've been assigned to the joint task force because of your history with him. But keep a care. The cover story is still Homeland Security."
"Yes, sir." Her mind was already spinning. "If vampires helped him escape, they're probably still with him, and the victim may have seen one of them. I'd like Doyle to come along, too. With any luck, his visions can help."
"Make the call," he said to Martella as he and Sara stepped into the elevator.
"Have Agent Doyle meet us at the scene."
"Yes, sir," the secretary said as the doors closed and the elevator whisked them away. On the drive, Bosch gave her the relevant details: ten-year-old female abducted from her home. No witnesses.
The news, and the dry recitation, about broke Sara's heart. But it was the sight of the little girl herself, pale as paper, eyes open in terror, that had sharp tears stinging Sara's eyes, and a flood of pure rage boiling through her head.
Her neck had been ripped open, which wasn't Stemmons's traditional MO, but since the Seer had confirmed his scent, Sara had to assume that the vamps were teaching him a thing or two.
Her hand ached suddenly, and she realized she'd been clutching her fist. She forced herself to relax, to let go of the wave of disgust that was keeping her rooted to the spot.
Goddammit.
"Sir." A tall creature who gave every indication of being nothing more than a skeleton covered by a thin layer of skin approached Bosch. "I am Voight, a Seer. I have a preliminary report."
Bosch nodded and he and Sara stepped aside with Voight. "We've analyzed the residual essence at the escape point, and there's no question that Stemmons was assisted by a single vampire, but the signature isn't reading clearly and we can't even determine if the vampire was male or female."
"Can you tell if that same vampire was here?" Sara asked. 126
"We can," Voight said. "We're picking up the same signature."
"We need Doyle," Sara said. "If the girl saw the vampire ..."
"Has Agent Doyle reported to the scene?" Bosch asked. The question, however, was mooted by Doyle's appearance across the playground. He scanned the scene, slipped under the county crime tape, then crossed quickly, with Tucker at his side.
"What the fuck?"
"A task force matter," Bosch said. "Constantine thinks your skills would be useful."
His eyes cut to the child's body, now surrounded by the human police and medical examiner. "Too crowded."
"We'll clear the crowd," Bosch said.
"It's bullshit," Doyle said. "She's human."
"She's a little girl," Sara countered.
Doyle's face tightened. "You got any idea how fucking hard it is to do what I do?
How much it drains me when I do it often? What seeps in around the edges when I'm weak?" His lip curled up in a snarl. "You ask me to do this thing, but you don't know the cost, Constantine. You don't fucking live in my world."
"What about the cost to that little girl?" Sara asked, refusing to be intimidated.
"She's human. Killed by a human. It's not my world. Not my problem."
"A vampire helped Stemmons kill her, Doyle," Sara said, getting right into his face, because if it hadn't been for that damn vampire
, then Stemmons wouldn't be out preying on little girls. " That's your world." He kicked the ground. "Fine. Fuck. Clear the goddamn scene." Bosch and Tucker took charge, with Bosch urging all extraneous personnel to leave the scene, and Tucker using his unique skill set to move the process along. When the crowd had dwindled and only a few humans remained nearby--their minds ready to be wiped by Tucker--Doyle bent over the body and placed his hands on the little girl, one over her head and one over her heart. His body went slack, his eyes glassy.
"How long?" she whispered to Tucker.
"Depends," he said. "I've seen a hundred of these things, and they're all different. It's the curse of being partnered with a Percipient. They ship him all over the damn globe when they got a fresh one."
"You, too?"
Tucker's expression was grave. "We're partners. Don't always make it in to the scene in time, though," Tucker added, looking at his partner. "Doyle's got a thing about wormholes. Won't go that way. Says they lead straight through hell. Doesn't matter how hot the case, he'll only travel by PEC transport. So sometimes the aura fades." His expression turned wry. "This one looks fresh, though." Sara hoped it was. She wanted answers, and right then, Doyle seemed like the best bet. Small convulsions wracked his body until, finally, Tucker grabbed Doyle's shoulders and yanked him free of the girl.
Doyle looked up, his face pale, his eyes glassy, and Sara realized her hands were clenched at her sides. "Female," he said. "The vamp bitch is female." He eased backward, shaking his head. "All I could get. Hem of a dress. Impressions from the kid."
"Shit," Sara said, realizing how much she'd been hoping for Doyle to ID the 127
vampire, give them some lead, some clue, something. Because she knew time was running out for the next little girl, and if they didn't hurry, she'd soon be standing over another pale, sweet face.
"Constantine!" Marty called to her from across the crime scene. "We got a lock of hair."
Shit. She hurried over, peered into the evidence bag at the curl of auburn hair held together by a golden ribbon. "Under the body, just like before." She looked up at Bosch. "He kept them--the girls. Took two or three at a time and kept them in cages. Then when he'd kill one, he'd leave a little clue as to the one he was going to do next. Hair. A favorite toy." She closed her eyes, swallowed hard. "One girl, he left her tongue."
"Son of a bitch," Bosch said.
"He's got the next one in a cage," she said, her stomach in knots. "And unless he's changed the way he operates, he's already got the one after that picked out." 128
Chapter 24
"Tasha!" The elevator doors opened directly into Serge's forty-seventh-floor penthouse apartment, and Nick's voice echoed over the polished marble. The foyer led into an extravagent living room, a semicircle with walls of specially manufactured tinged glass from which Serge could look out over the night, then flip the finger at the rising sun through the impervious glass.
The chemistry upon which the glass was made was unstable, as Serge well knew. Yet even so, he faced the dawn each morning, thumbing his nose at fate. So far, fate had not kicked back, but it would not surprise Nick to one day step inside the apartment and find a pile of ash by the windows, the deadly sunlight having accomplished its purpose.
Today, thank the gods, was not that day.
In fact, he found nothing at all, and wondered if perhaps that was even more disturbing.
"Come on, Tasha," he called. "It's Nick. Come on out for me." He waited for her reply. A soft whimper, a terrified yell, even an irritated wail that she'd been left all alone. But the apartment remained quiet, and the fear in Nick's gut bloomed red.
Determined, he stalked through the place, peering into all the rooms, looking into all the closets, under the beds. Any place a scared girl would hide. He didn't find her. More telling, he didn't find any of her dolls. The goblin blood, however, was exactly where Ryback had said, its vinegar scent still pungent.
"By the gods," he whispered. "What the hell happened here?" He'd been to Serge's subterranean abode only twice, the first time accessing the underground corridors through the basement of the high-rise, and the second through a descent into a subway tunnel. They'd hopped the tracks, then entered the maze of tunnels through a maintenance door. With the sun now shining brightly, Nick had no choice but to take option one and hope that he could find his way through the putrid tunnels to the oasis that was Serge's hideaway.
More, he hoped that Serge would be there when he found it.
The basement had not been designed to connect to the city's labyrinth of tunnels. And, indeed, it was not Serge who had forged the way. That task had fallen upon the misbegotten of the city, the destitute and homeless who searched for a place other than the street to sleep. How they had discovered the thin stone wall behind the industrial washing machines in the basement laundry room, Nick didn't know. Someone had, though, and had chipped away, creating a narrow passage that could be accessed by shifting the machine slightly to the left.
Someone, possibly Serge, had finally become frustrated with the frequent movement of the appliance and had pushed it permanently aside, then situated a draped table in front of the access point. Ostensibly a place for residents to fold clothes, the table 129
provided a permanent doorway for anyone who crawled beneath and pushed aside the drape.
It was, thought Nick, the kind of portal to hell that enlivened children's nightmares. The place where they would disappear. Where the monsters would grab them.
He moved quickly inside the tunnels, passing these humans, these people who would look upon him either as monster or as savior. Had Serge turned any of them, he wondered? Had he made these gutter rats into their kind?
The possibility disgusted Nick. Serge would say he was a snob and, in fact, he would be right. Because there was a beauty to what they were. Nosferatu. Creatures born of night and filled with night.
They suffered, yes. And those who lost the battle within could spend eternity lost in torment. But if the battle could be won--if the beast could be tamed--then the world seemed to exist for their delight, the most powerful and feared of all the Shadow creatures. With strength and grace and abilities like none other. It was intoxicating.
It was, he thought, divine.
And had it not been divinity that he had searched for, all those years ago in Venice? Had he not sought the face of God through his studies? Through examination of the stars? In the very art of his ancestors?
He shook his head to clear his meandering thoughts. He did not often think on his nature, as he did not want to tempt fate. Become too complacent--too arrogant--and the daemon would rise up and try to wrest control.
That had happened with Serge, he was certain.
His daemon had burst forth. The only questions now were how many had it killed, and how much of Serge was left.
Rats scurried around his feet, and he trod carefully on the metal flooring. The way was narrow in places, but when the tunnel widened, he could see people huddled together over Sterno cans, their eyes white behind filthy faces.
One foolish man stepped into Nick's path, a metal shiv held at the ready. "'at you doin' down hae?"
"I'm out for a stroll," Nick said. "You'd be wise to go your own way."
"Smart man. Fancy man."
"Deadly man," Nick said, and bared his fangs.
That was all it took, and the man scurried away like the rats Nick had passed earlier. He didn't stare in awe and wonder. Didn't snarl and claim Nick was a monster. He turned and ran.
And that, Nick thought, was telling. These people had seen a vampire. Knew what one was, and what one was capable of.
He stopped, for the first time really looking at the people huddled together, their eyes fixed on him. He lifted his chin, sniffing the air, finding their scent. Heroin and sex. Blood and vomit. But they would know, and they would tell.
He took a step toward the closest one, and she scooted backward, her halter top falling open to expose a flaccid breast. "Get away, get awa
y, get away."
"You know me?"
"I know like you," she said, then spat at his feet. "Got the evil in you, you do." 130
He cocked his head. "What do you know of it, woman?"
"Tossed her out. Out of his big house. Hell house, underground, just like the way to hell. Find her, and she's all broken and can't fix her, just like that egg boy."
"Egg boy?"
"Humpty," she said. "Egg boy."
"Ah, yes."
"Just wanted to get her groove on, that's all she wanted. Just trying to get by, get high."
He stepped closer. "Move."
She hesitated, and he curled his lips. That sufficed, and she scuttled sideways, revealing a mound under a tattered, filthy blanket. He bent closer, saw bugs scatter as he reached to draw the cloth away, then found himself staring at an emaciated young woman with a mass of dark, curly ringlets. She was pale and motionless, and the scent of death was upon her.
"Where?" Nick asked. "Where does he live? The one who did this thing?" The woman stuck out a thin arm and pointed to the left fork of the tunnel. "He's a fiend, he is. Rip your heart out as soon as look at you. Toss 'em away, all our pretty girls. Just trying to get by. Just trying to get a fix."
He left her prattling on, her words echoing eerily in the metal tunnel. He found Serge's door easily enough. There was no mistaking it. The polished, ornate oak, completely devoid of graffiti. Because who in the tunnels would be fool enough to deface the monster's doorway?
"Serge! Open up!" Nick pounded, ignoring the eyes that peered out from the dark.
"Dammit, Serge, open the fucking door."
Nothing. No sound. No noise. Nothing.
"Fuck." This time, the curse was whispered, and said more to himself and the door than to anyone inside. "Too bad. It's a damn nice door." And with that, he reared back, kicked, and sent the heavy oak door flying across the flagstone-paved entrance hall. His eyes told him the place was empty. His nose told him otherwise. The pungent, enticing scent of blood hung in the air, laced with fear and a little piss and shit just to give it that nice round edge.