by John Meaney
Donal's eyelids drooped, and the world appeared to grow dark gray.
I'm tired.
As the Vixen rolled into motion, he was vaguely aware of the surrounding grounds of Mordanto, of the exit gate they were heading toward. Then he allowed his chin to descend to his chest.
Rest.
His eyes closed.
“You have my daughter's heart, Donal Riordan.” Professor Helena Steele's voice was in his mind. “I don't know whether to thank you or hate you for it.”
He wanted to tell her to shut up.
“Whether you understand my meaning is probably irrelevant.”
He wanted to tell her that he loved her.
Mother!
Sleep closed in, bringing no comfort.
When Viktor turned back from trying to watch the Vixen's departure through the gates—had they opened or not?—he saw Harald and the younger mage, Kelvin, but Professor Steele was gone.
“That went smoothly,” he said. “Really magical.”
“I'm sorry.” Kelvin looked serious. “You guys didn't mention her name, and I did.”
Harald was looking at the silver truck with the golem waiting inside.
“We need to get Alexa, and the Phantasm. We'd appreciate your help, Mage Kelvin.”
“You've got it.”
They climbed on board, then all the doors—including the side door—fastened shut. Kelvin gestured, and the engine came to life. He headed for the main gates.
“I've got a question,” said Viktor.
The solid-looking gates were growing closer, and the truck was gaining speed.
“What's that?”
“How does—?”
And then they were on the road, merging with the traffic.
“Never mind,” said Viktor.
Lexar Pinderwin stood surrounded by deathwolves inside the lobby of Police HQ. Facing him was the rearing granite block from which the duty sergeant's upper body grew.
“I need to see Lieutenant Riordan,” said Lexar.
“Someone will be right with you.” The sergeant gestured across the lobby. “You want to wait over there?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Two of the deathwolves accompanied him, while the others padded back outside. Lexar stood in place, conscious of what he was carrying inside his jacket. No wonder the deathwolves were sticking close—if Lexar had been anyone other than a forensic Bone Listener, they would have pounced already.
Two plainclothes detectives approached.
“Bone Listener Pinderwin? Please come with us.”
“Of course.”
With one detective on either side of him, Lexar walked toward the elevator shafts. He looked back and saw the deathwolves staring.
The detectives descended with him, and they came out onto a gray-painted landing, opposite a door labeled Robbery-Haunting.
“Has Lieutenant Riordan transferred to R-H?”
“This way, Bone Listener.”
They brought him to a glass-doored inner office. The lettering on this door read Commander P. Bowman. Inside, a lean man with cropped red hair stood up.
Lexar went in.
“I was hoping to see Lieutenant Riordan.”
“I'm Bowman. Riordan reports to me.”
The office door closed behind Lexar. It was just him and the commander.
“Does he work for Robbery-Haunting now?”
“No. The commissioner put me in charge of the task force, as a temporary measure.”
“Could he do that? It's a federal task force.”
“As I said, it's a temporary measure.”
Lexar was aware that he was in the heart of HQ, facing a man who was three decades older: a senior officer. But Lexar had already broken a multitude of rules today, without backing down.
“Commander, I would prefer to talk to Lieutenant Riordan.”
“My apologies, Bone Listener, but if I knew where he was, I'd escort you there in person.”
“He's missing?”
“We allow someone of Donal's rank a lot of latitude. He hasn't checked in, that's all.”
Lexar glanced back at the glass door, and the detectives outside.
“Perhaps I should just go.”
“Or perhaps you should trust me,” said Bowman. “As Commis sioner Vilnar did.”
“It's not a matter of—”
“There is a way, isn't there?” Bowman undid his cuff, and began to roll back his shirt sleeve. “I wrote an essay on it, as part of my master's degree.”
“No. Please.”
“I know what's involved, Bone Listener Pinderwin.”
Bowman held out his hand.
“So Listen to me,” he added, “while I tell you the truth.”
Lexar reached forward, and grasped Bowman's little finger. Bowman sucked in a breath, his teeth clenched hard, squeezing his eyes closed as the process continued.
As soon as possible, Lexar released him.
“You're on Lieutenant Riordan's side. Commissioner Vilnar trusted you.”
Bowman bit his lip, then withdrew his hand. Tears trickled from his eyes, but he ignored them. He examined his finger, now blackened to the second knuckle.
“Shit. The books were right.” He pulled his mouth into a brief grin. “It does hurt.”
“I've never Listened to a living being. There are strict prohi bitions.”
“And that has to be a good thing.” Bowman placed his hand on his lap, out of Lexar's sight. “These are strange times, or I'd never have volunteered for that.”
“But you guessed I have something important to say, or you'd not have gone through the procedure.”
“I know the deathwolves were uneasy, and the scanwraiths were … interested.”
“Yes.”
Bowman looked down at his lap, then: “So I don't suppose you want to give me a clue?”
After a few seconds thinking about it, Lexar reached inside his jacket, pulled out a small pale object, and placed it on Bowman's desk.
“Shit, Bone Listener!”
“It's a young boy's hand. He was twelve years old, and his name was Samuel.”
All this, Lexar had learned from Listening to the boy-corpse's bones.
“You've been investigating a telephone company,” continued Lexar. “What you've not realized is the special nature of their connecting lines, to carry the kind of signals they're transmitting.”
Bowman rubbed away the tears of pain.
“What special nature?”
“The main lines are formed from treated nerves.”
“My brother-in-law,” said Bowman, “is an engineer. I happen to know that phone exchanges and major switchboards contain nerve-tissue lines. It's how they work.”
“But they wouldn't transmit the signals that you're concerned about.”
“So what's the diff—?”
“The nerves were taken from a living person. A child. That's the first difference.”
The boy's pale hand lay on the desktop between them.
“And it takes a dark mage to carry out the procedure,” added Lexar. “I mean, he has to be there in person.”
It took maybe five seconds for Bowman to stop blinking and focus on Lexar.
“Where did you find this?”
“In an Energy Authority complex.”
“Which one?”
“Westside.”
“And the mage has to be present?”
“He—or she—had to have been there yesterday, at least. That was when this boy, Samuel, died. His bones remember the process, Commander, and it was not a quick one.”
“Hades.”
“Yes. So what are you going to do?”
“I'm going to enlist Donal Riordan's help,” said Bowman, “and take the fuckers down.”
“And I'll assist, however I can.”
“You already have. Thank you, Bone Listener.”
Lexar thought back to his conversation with Aldrevun.
“Sometimes you have to step forward,�
� he said, “and try to make a difference.”
“That you do. I suspect Dr. d'Alkernay would be proud of you.”
Lexar looked to one side, trying to blink away the moistness of his eyes.
When Donal opened his eyes, he was in East Danklyn, and the steering wheel in front of him moved by itself as the Vixen took a turn to the left. The woman beside him and the two zombies in the rear all reached over and touched him, just for a second, and withdrew.
“Thank you,” Donal said.
Outside, the shops were beginning to close. It was late evening, and here in East Danklyn there was no reason to be open late. This was close to the city's edge, some eighteen miles from Donal's home in Darksan Tower, and already there were few pedestrians on the streets.
A small bank branch, its globular lights shining yellow on either side of its portico, caught his attention. He had money, and these three probably had little.
“Stop. Really. Please, sis.”
The Vixen slowed, then pulled over. The doors remained shut.
“I'll be back in five minutes.”
As soon as the door clicked open, he slid out onto the sidewalk, and headed for the bank. Inside, there was only one person ahead of him at the single teller's station remaining open. Waiting, Donal had a moment's weakness in his muscles, and his eyes closed as he thought he was fainting.
“Sir?”
“No.” His eyes snapped open. “I'm fine.”
I'm not.
He took control of his body.
Yes, I am.
The teller was free now, and beckoned Donal forward.
“I need to make a withdrawal,” Donal said.
“A large one?” The teller was standard human, his voice sympathetic. “I understand.”
“Thank you.”
Donal used the white credit card, signed an authorization, and received a dark canvas bag containing the cash. When the transaction was over, he thanked the teller.
“I hope you find somewhere safe,” the teller said.
“Yes. Thanks again.”
As he left, he took three ninety-nine florin notes from the bag and put them in his pocket. The rest he carried over to the Vixen, whose driver's door remained open. He put the money bag on the seat.
“Take it,” he said to the woman inside.
“We can't—”
“Use it, before the city takes it from me. It's the only rational thing to do.”
He ought to get money for himself. Maybe later.
“Yes. Good luck.”
The Vixen trembled when he placed his hand on the door.
“Get them to safety, and yourself.”
A soft note added itself to the engine's sound.
“Yes. I will,” he said.
He closed the door.
“Be well, sis.”
The Vixen hesitated, even though the road was clear. Then she clunked her gears unnecessarily hard, and lurched forward, accelerating, moving fast with her lights turned down low.
Look after yourself.
Donal turned away. He started off along the street in the opposite direction, looking back once, just as the Vixen turned out of sight, and then he carried on. Lights began to switch off in storefront windows, deepening the gloom of the street.
He had eighteen miles to walk. A taxi might come by, and he could always ask for directions to the nearest Pneumetro station, but he needed the time to himself. Besides, he'd known guys in his old regiment who ran twice that distance competitively.
I'm scared.
Perhaps he should have gone with the Vixen. But she had understood his need to remain.
That doesn't stop the fear.
Still, he walked on. After three blocks, he passed a sporting goods shop, its lights turned off, but its door open. A man in shirtsleeves was dragging a box labeled For Collection into the doorway.
“Are you the owner?” said Donal.
“Huh!” The man took two steps back. “Who are you?”
Donal held out his detective's shield. Then he reached inside his pocket, and withdrew a ninety-nine florin note.
“Someone with money to spend, if that's okay with you.”
For a moment, the store owner looked uncertain. He glanced at a rack of metal spikeball bats inside the door. Then he nodded.
“Sure. Come on in.”
“Thank you.”
Once inside, the owner pulled down all the blinds before switching on the main lights.
“Whatever you need, Officer.”
Donal looked around the stacked shelves.
“You got any running suits?”
“Uh, sure. Any particular style?”
“Something in black.”
Twenty minutes later, he was jogging slowly along the near-deserted street. His running suit and shoes were black, as was the watch cap on his head, and the small backpack in which his ordinary clothes were tightly rolled up, along with the Magnus.
He staggered once, then continued.
Come on.
There had been a moment, getting changed in the store, when his balance had gone, and the store owner had looked concerned. But in seconds, Donal's equilibrium had returned.
Steady. You can do it.
He felt no tiredness, despite the part of him that wanted to lie down and sleep. A paradox, but this was not the time for introspection. This was a time to be getting on with things.
His pace picked up as his movement, the opposing swing of shoulders and hips, became more fluid. He leaned farther forward by a tiny increment, becoming conscious of the subtle change in the way his feet struck the ground.
“Hey, look at that.”
“What?”
“I thought I saw a zom—”
The voices came from a doorway, and Donal was already leaving it behind. There was little danger here.
Still, he turned left at the next corner, ran two blocks, and turned right, continuing parallel to the original route. His pace grew a little faster again, and he began to feel infinitesimally better with every step, as if running through some kind of emotional calculus, knitting his fractured self back together.
Just run.
Another twenty minutes, and he had left Lower Danklyn behind, and was entering Arachnia Halls. Wide spaces separated the hundred-foot-tall dark-gray stone spiders. Their splayed legs were hollow, along with their thoraxes and heads. In some of them, people lived, in warrens that were centuries old. Others were mercantile bazaars, filled with cheap goods and the occasional valuable one, the latter normally stolen. A small number of the spiders were cracked open, dark inside, and filled with a chill air that few people felt comfortable breathing.
Donal continued to run.
He was a shadow flitting through shadows, feeling good as he ran under the archway formed by one great spider-leg. From above came a low whistle, but he ignored it and ran on.
Farther along, near the end of this spider's body, a group of men spread out, blocking the way.
Shit.
He was a police officer, but he was no longer sure that counted for anything. For all he knew, during the past few busy hours, the city might already have declared zombie cops a thing of the past.
Donal slowed down.
Looking behind him, he saw more men filling the width of the walkway. There was only one thing to do. He continued on his current route.
“Here, little icicle.”
“That's right, lollipop. Come here.”
And ran faster than before, straight toward them.
“Ooh, this one looks eager.”
“Asking for it.”
“Well, he's gonna get—”
Then Donal turned right, running still faster. The stone spider's swollen belly was overhead. Farther along, it reached the ground, forming a barrier Donal couldn't pass. But here he could continue to run, and did.
Faster.
Had he turned sooner, the men would have been able to intercept his run. By waiting till the last moment before suddenl
y turning, he was leaving them behind. All of them were running after him. Light glinted off blades and glass-studded sticks. No guns, then.
Good.
He bore left and ran on past the spider, with the group following. Arachnia Halls was a large neighborhood, and the next spider along was the first of many. When Donal estimated he had been running for a minute, he slowed down and looked back.
The pursuing men were strung out in a staggered line now, with the fittest in front. The leader now was only yards behind Donal.
Very good.
Donal dug in his heel, knee bending to absorb the impact, and thrust himself back. He turned, generating power from the waist, and the heel of his palm smashed into the hard jaw, the impact doubled by the big man's momentum.
There was a crunch and the man was down, his face distorted, deeply unconscious.
Behind him came a second attacker, followed by too many to fight. Donal kicked at the man's knee, sidestepped, throwing an overhand left into the side of his neck, and was already running again without checking the effect of his punch.
Yes, faster.
He sped up.
That's it.
He ran faster than he thought was possible.
Across the dark interstitial space between spiders, he noted the terrain was uneven and hard to see. Behind him, he heard the pursuers slow down, then speed up once more. Perhaps they were entering unfamiliar ground, another gang's territory.
Donal leaped.
He'd jumped without breaking the rhythm of his run. In seconds, he was near the first great stone leg of the next spider. Glancing back, he saw the stumble and hesitation of the men behind him. They were looking for the wire fence they'd seen him jump … except there was no fence.
He grinned in the darkness, making his way across to the belly of the spider, where it touched the ground. Lowering himself on hands and knees, as if about to perform a push-up, Donal stretched himself out. Then, lying prone, he crossed his arms so that his black sleeves hid his hands, and turned his face toward the stone, away from his pursuers.
He listened carefully as they ran past. When they were gone, he rolled out of cover and onto his feet. Then he began to run once more.
Following the men.
They were strung out before him, and Donal could see that the last man was about to stop running, his chest heaving. The man bent over, hands on knees, wheezing, staring at the ground. His face was in perfect position for a rising kick, and that's what Donal used, following with three curved punches to the neck as the man went down.