by John Meaney
“What are you doing with Mrs. Finross?”
“Trying to save her life.”
Thalveen had worked on the old woman's acupressure points with his long fingers before the guard opened the medical bag for him. Now Thalveen snapped open three bulbs containing fluids, and tipped one across Mrs. Finross's chest—the orange fluid seeped into her skin as if her body were a sponge—and tipped another against her mouth, allowing drops to fall on her tongue. Vapor from the third drifted toward her nostrils, and entered.
Then Thalveen reached inside the bag for a quicksilver scarab with flailing insectile legs. But even as he brought the scarab close to the old woman's skin, she gave a bouncing kick against the floor. An awful hiss of escaping air was her final exhalation.
Donal had heard people die before. He recognized the sound.
“I think you should stop now,” said the florid man.
Thalveen sat back on his heels, struggling quicksilver scarab in hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I don't sense her coming back.”
The gray-suited men looked at each other. Thalveen replaced the scarab in its jar inside the case. Then he stoppered the vials and put them in with the jar, and clicked the indigo bag shut.
He looked up as two of the guard's colleagues arrived with a stretcher.
“We've called an ambulance, Doctor.”
“Good.”
Then a distant sound reached Donal's ears: an empty howl strong enough to pass through muting hexiglass. Finross, seeing his mother's death during the agony of his own.
Donal could find no joy in it. Not even for Laura's sake.
Outside, a black car rolled along the knucklebone-gravel drive, and stopped fifty yards from the steps that led into the main penitentiary pile of Wailing Towers. Next to the parking lot was a long sidewalk where flamewraiths, in their minimized aspect, licked along the gaps between flagstones. On the steps and iron-bound doors, white runes glowed.
“Someone's late.” Al Brodowski, massive arms folded, stood in front of the cruiser he'd driven here. “And I think they're too late.”
“Already?” Bud Brodowski checked his watch. “But it's been an hour, is all.”
“Look.”
The white runes began to flicker red, then to strobe, alternating between white and red so fast they appeared pink.
“Oh, yeah. That's approaching death, all right.”
The black car stopped. From the license plate, it was a rental. Al and Bud watched as the driver got out.
“Sharp dresser.”
The narrow-bodied man wore a bluemole coat over a well-cut dark-blue suit. A black band of lizard skin encircled his blue fedora.
“Ain't he just. You make him for a cop, all the same?”
“Not from this city.”
The man reached inside the car, and drew out a gray box. Both Brodowskis found themselves resting one hand naturally on their guns. The man noticed them, grinned, and used his heel to slam the car door shut.
“Disregarding the rental company's property.”
“Has to be a cop.”
“What I said, ain't it?”
The man's pointed shoes scrunched on knucklebones as he neared the brothers. They could see the stubble on his long face, thicker over the upper lip. Perhaps he was growing a moustache.
“Am I too late for the big finale?” He nodded toward the runes, now shining a deeper color, closer to solid red. “I got a tender stomach, so it's just as well.”
“Uh-huh,” said Al.
“You got ID?” asked Bud.
“How I got through the gate.” The thin man touched the breast of his coat. “Letter of authorization.”
“That's not exactly ID.”
“I wasn't exactly offering to show you ID.”
The brothers tensed. In the weight-lifting rooms at HQ, they were called the Barbarians. The sight of their swelling muscles and narrowing eyes had made more than one violent gang member grow weak and compliant. But this man, far slighter than them, merely shifted the weight of the gray box under one arm, and grinned once more.
“See, guys—I'm not here, right?”
“Hey, Al. You think he looks kinda solid for an apparition?”
“I dunno, Bud. He looks kinda brittle, y'know?”
“Don't test me.” Then, with a grin: “Okay, I give up. Just arrest me and throw me in Commissioner Vilnar's car.”
“Say what?”
But Al's gaze had already flickered to a dark-green armored limousine parked at the far end of the lot.
“That one, is it? Thanks, men. That's all I needed to know.”
Al and Bud stared at each other. They had the muscle to force the issue, but it was obvious that the stranger was no criminal. If he had been, he would never have passed through the outer gates.
But as he walked on toward the commissioner's car, the brothers smiled.
“It's not like he hung around long enough for us to warn him, is it?”
“Nah. Shame, cos we'd have told him all about Lamis, we would.”
“ ’Course we would. We aim to please, don't we?”
“Dunno about you, bro, but I usually aim for the center of the body.”
“There is that.”
In the distance, high in the dark-purple sky, a tiny shape with bat-wings banked into a turn, straightening up as its nose pointed toward Wailing Towers.
“The ambulance is coming.”
“Guess the show's almost over.”
Finross continued to die. His drawn-out nerves formed spreading branches, gauzy fractal trees that floated in the air. As the second hour began, his skin began to peel back in narrow, curling strips. The hookwraiths teased gray, glistening fat away from red-soaked, striated muscle tissue. Shimmering liquid highlights played across the revealed interior of Finross's body, as he continued to writhe and howl.
Someone—not the first—began to retch into a handkerchief, and rushed from the viewing chamber. Even the experienced journalists looked sweat-soaked and haggard, their complexions gray. Perhaps only Commissioner Vilnar, blocky and unmoving in his front-row seat, displayed no reaction to the ongoing suffering.
“The taxpayers got their money's worth,” he'd said to a reporter on a former occasion, after a senior figure in Bugs Lander's mob had paid the penalty for dissolving several competitors’ lower bodies in acidic ghoulspider venom, then fastening the still-living torsos upside down beneath the Dreadspan Bridge. The execution had lasted nearly five hours, considerably less than the victims’ final ordeal.
“Nice to see the underworld giving something back,” Vilnar had concluded.
It had been a popular statement with the Gazette's readership. The mayor's office had taken note. And perhaps the prison officials, too, because today's hookwraiths were performing superbly, as the gray clouds of nerves around Finross's form were joined by spreading blue and red. The wraiths teased out capillaries first, then arteries and veins, so that the whole circulatory system fanned alongside the nerves, hanging in the air like a delicate sculpture that had taken weeks to construct.
Surpassing themselves.
Call it a masterful performance.
Outside, the lightest of quicksilver rains was starting to fall, faintly hissing on the knucklebone gravel. The thin man, whose name was Temesin, approached the dark-green armored limousine at the end of the row of cars. Before he reached it, the driver's door cracked open, and a tall figure climbed out. The dark-gray chauffeur's uniform, complete with peaked cap, was only to be expected; but the heavy wraparound dark-blue glasses, worn outdoors instead of inside, were unusual.
From the far end of the parking lot came a murmured: “Lamis don't never get out of the car, does he, bro?”
“Not hardly. But there he is.”
Neither Temesin nor the chauffeur looked in the Brodowskis’ direction. But a ripple in the air indicated that a muting hex field had descended, preventing the brothers from overhearing.
“I'm Lamis.” The chauffeur'
s voice was sepulchral. “You've brought a sample.”
“And now your boss owes my boss a favor.”
“If you say so, Inspector.”
“Uh-huh.” Temesin checked that the Brodowskis showed no signs of understanding the conversation. “So are you going to take the Death-damned thing or not?”
Lamis reached up and removed his shades just an inch, until the thin man could see the darkness where Lamis's eyes should have been. Inside that darkness was—
“Shit. You don't need to scare me, Lamis.”
“But you haven't.” Lamis replaced his heavy dark-blue shades. “Excreted in your pants, I mean. Nor did you run from me. Most people would.”
“Too bad.”
“Probably.” Lamis took the gray case from Temesin. “The resonance from this thing is … unsettling.”
“Didn't make me feel too happy carrying it, and I'm no mage. So I accept your apology.”
Lamis's mouth moved slightly. “You did a good job. You're flying straight back home?”
“Unless the border's closed. The old Transition Tempest has been wild lately. A lot of flights are delayed.”
“Thank you again, Inspector.”
The rain was growing heavier. Temesin hunched his shoulders.
“I love the weather here. Makes me feel welcome.”
But Lamis was staring at the red runes. If blood could glow, it would be that color.
“I get it,” said Temesin. “End of the show. I'm gone from here.”
He turned and headed back toward his rental car, tipping his fedora to the Brodowskis as he passed. Then he got inside, started the engine, and backed out too fast from the parking space, spraying gravel into the bodywork of three cars.
He drove toward the main exit without looking back.
The Brodowskis watched him depart, noting the scanwraiths passing through the car, checking everything even on departure. This was a prison, after all, filled with inmates desperate to escape.
“Definitely a cop, bro.”
“You got it.”
They turned away, checking Commissioner Vilnar's limousine. The driver, Lamis, had climbed back inside. His curved dark glasses were in place as usual.
“You saw it, right?”
“What? When he nearly took off his shades?”
“Yeah. Then.”
“Uh … Nope. Didn't see a thing.”
Inside the limo, Lamis's features might have moved fractionally, precursor to a nonexistent smile.
After a moment: “Me neither. Obviously.”
“Yeah. Obviously.”
Overhead, the bat-winged ambulance was gliding in an elliptical trajectory, looking for a place to land. Then it did something surprising—curving its wings, it dropped straight toward the roof of the main penitentiary pile.
“They'll never make it.”
“I dunno. That driver's good.”
“Pilot.”
“Huh?”
“They're flying, ain't they? So the guy's a pilot.”
“If you say so, bro.”
The black ambulance swiveled its afterburners downward, and blue flames flared as it descended, braking. It lowered itself in the middle of a formation of five pointed towers, snapped its wings into its chassis at the last moment, and was gone from sight.
“Didn't hear a crash.”
“Got down okay. Sweet.”
“Who are you calling sweet?”
“In your—Now, who's this?”
Another car was entering the ground of Wailing Towers. This one was long and dark burgundy, almost black, its flared fins edged with obsidian. The windows and windshield were strips of polished darkness.
“I recognize the fancy limo.”
“So whose is—? Hades, bro.”
“Yeah. Exactly. You think the Lieutenant knows?”
“Beats me. What do you reckon?”
“Haven't got a clue, bro.”
The limo pulled up alongside them. Then the driver's door opened, and a huge bearded man with a vast belly maneuvered his legs from beneath the steering wheel. Puffing, he got to his feet, grimaced at the sea of knucklebones, then grinned at the Brodowskis.
“Hey, guys. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Andre. How's life?” said Al.
“See you got a job.” Bud nodded toward the rear. “That who we think it is?”
“Probably. Give me a moment.”
He opened the rear door. What appeared first was a slender walking-stick formed of intricately carved bone. Then a frail ankle in expensive shoes. When the lady rose out of the limo, she stood straight, and flicked back a coil of white hair from her forehead.
“Hello, boys.”
“Uh, hello, ma'am.”
“Ma'am.”
“Andre”—she turned to her chauffeur—“do you know my old friends Aloysius and Boudreaux Brodowski?”
“Sure, ma'am.”
But Andre, like the rest of the world, knew them as Al and Bud, or simply the Barbarians, unaware of their complex mixed heritage. Now his mouth worked as he silently practiced: Aloy-sius. Bou-dreaux.
The Brodowskis shook their heads, their muscular necks clenching and releasing.
“And who are you assigned to drive around?” The white-haired woman's face was lined, but her eyes were gray jewels, shining clear. “Ah. Good. It was in fact Lieutenant Riordan that I wanted to see.”
The brothers tried not to look at each other. Both men knew that humming a tune would stop them subvocalizing responses to questions they should not answer. But every song and ditty they knew had evaporated from memory. Their throats were dry.
Then the woman looked at the glowing red runes, before glancing up toward the roof. The ambulance was out of sight, but she said: “The paramedics are here already. I don't… Ah, you've a wait ahead of you, boys.”
“Ma'am?”
“It's not the alderman who's died. His execution is still in progress.” The woman's frown overlaid a momentary smile. “Poor woman. I can sympathize.”
Then she looked at the Brodowskis and added: “So. You boys can rest—now—secure in remembering to forget that I was ever here.”
Each brother felt himself slide into a warm daydream, still standing upright, with perfect balance.
“Ma'am,” said Andre. “Are we leaving?”
“Yes. This was a mistake.”
She nodded toward the far end of the parking area. For a moment, Bud had time to think: Lamis. She means Lamis.
Then he, like his brother, descended into soft amnesiac sleep.
Donal was trying to tune out the suffering in front of him. What made it difficult was his new self-awareness, the unsettling realization that he could control his emotions—except that realization caused another emotional reaction. He had a strange sense of architecture in his mind, a form of internal perception he had never known.
Then again, I've never been dead before.
Down in the front row, Commissioner Vilnar touched his shaved temple, and bowed his head, as if listening to a phone conversation. He gave a tiny nod, then leaned toward Commander Bowman and murmured something, before getting to his feet.
Donal was glad that something had changed in the external world. Inside his own head was somewhere he didn't want to be. But he remained sitting, only his gaze following Commissioner Vilnar as he left.
He closed his eyes—
Laura. I miss you so much.
—and opened them. Even the sight of Finross dying was better than the inside of his mind.
Out in the parking lot, Commissioner Vilnar stopped in front of the unmoving Brodowski brothers. Their eyes were open but unfocused, unaware of Vilnar's presence. He looked at them for a long moment, then snorted and shook his head.
“Damn woman.”
He left the entranced brothers standing by their cruiser, and headed for his limousine. The rear door opened as he neared, and he climbed inside, settling himself on the gray-scaled upholstery. He moved into the center, as t
he door closed and locked.
The partition slid down. In the front seat, Lamis spoke without turning.
“She's gone. But our friend from Silvex City came and went before her.”
“Temesin? Did she notice him?”
“Not that I could tell. It's Riordan she was thinking about.”
“She'd make a useful ally.”
“But she has no love for the Department. Still, if you use Riordan for what you've in mind, perhaps she'll see her way clear”—Lamis used one long fingernail to tap his shades—“to helping us.”
“Or maybe he's been through enough.”
“He's still a police officer, with a duty.”
“I know.” Vilnar rubbed a hand over his shaven scalp, then across his face. “I do know that.”
“And I'm not going to mention how things are growing critical.”
“Good. I'm glad you aren't mentioning that.”
“Although, of course, they are.” Lamis reached for something. “Take a look.”
He lifted a gray case high enough to balance it on the back of his seat.
“I'm getting a … sensation,” said Vilnar, “across my skin. It's not a pleasant one.”
“And that's with heavy insulation.” Lamis lowered the case back onto the front passenger seat, then slid it down into the floor well. “You'd really feel it if I opened the thing.”
“Shit.” Vilnar hadn't been a street cop for a long time, but the vernacular remained. “Is it weapons grade?”
“Definitely.”
“And what kind of weapon are the bastards building with it? Thousands of handhelds, or something singular and massive?”
“Impossible to tell, if the sample's not configured yet. And I don't think it is.”
“Balls.” Again, Vilnar rubbed his face. “All right. Bowman was in the Westside Complex last week, but when he tried to sneak away from the initial meeting, his path was blocked by life-wards.”
“The complex where Finross's body is about to go.”
“Exactly.”
“Life-ward security, but the arresting officer happens not to be a living man.” Lamis popped open a drawer in the dashboard, then drew out what looked like a pair of ordinary notepads. “You might want to give Riordan one of these.”