Black City Demon

by Richard A. Knaak

  While I could sympathize with Barnaby, there wasn’t much I could do for his situation, which made me wonder why he’d called. “Did something else happen at Dunning?”

  His pause lasted long enough to put me on edge.

  “Joseph’s had a visitor.”

  I gripped the receiver tighter. No one knew Joseph had been committed to Dunning except for Barnaby and me. No one knew Joseph even lived. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t decipher the signature. I tried asking the staff on duty, but no one seems to remember anything except that someone asked for Joseph.” He paused, then added, “I never thought to forbid anyone from seeing him. I never thought anyone but me ever would visit him, Master Nicholas.”

  He had a point there. I’d never considered warning him to do any such thing either. Those involved with Joseph had died before and during the Wingfoot disaster. There should’ve been no one else interested in Barnaby’s son. “How long ago did it happen?”

  When he told me, I shuddered. The same night as the Frost Moon and Oberon’s plan to make Feirie and the mortal world into one big mess. It didn’t surprise me that Oberon might’ve been involved with Joseph somehow. Oberon’s plots had gone all the way back to the day after I thought he’d burned to death during the Great Fire . . . or as those of Feirie often called it, the Night the Dragon Breathed.

  The night I’d decided it was better to fully release the dragon and let a city go up in flames in order to save it and everything else.

  I mentioned Oberon to Barnaby. Oddly, he sounded relieved at the suggestion. “Then, it’s nothing to worry ourselves about. That’s all over with His Lord gone. Thank God for that.”

  “Just the same, I’d like to see the signature when I get the chance. Do you feel like going out to see Joseph soon again?”

  “Always. He’s still a part of my Emma. He’s still my son.”

  I had no reply for that. I’d not met Emma. I’d met Joseph when he’d been of his own mind. I couldn’t imagine him being any part of a woman Barnaby’d described as so loving, so caring.

  “I’ll call you when I know what’s best for me. It should be nothing, but I’d just like to verify.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The Packard runs great,” I added for lack of anything better to say.

  “Glad to hear, Master Nicholas. It’s the least I can do.”

  I hung up. If the unexpected nap hadn’t been enough to get me going again, the call had. I couldn’t be bothered with the clippings. I needed to get out.

  I needed, despite everything I’d told myself over and over, to see Claryce.

  The dragon snickered.

  CHAPTER 3

  I made one quick call before leaving, an apologetic one to the young Mrs. Nilsson about my missed appointment. I understood enough concerning their situation to know that they were still safe from the Wyld likely lurking in the recesses of their house. Unless extremely powerful—like a member of Her Lady’s Court—it took time for them to rebuild their power once they crossed into the mortal world. This one clearly hadn’t been here long enough. Still, I promised I’d take care of the situation tonight, and I would.

  There was no sign of Fetch outside. He’d probably kept running until he was near the State Street restaurants. The Loop was one of his favorite haunts, with the restaurants supplying the bulk of his meals. The cooks didn’t actually come out and feed him; Fetch lived for the most part on the robust population of vermin thriving on the trash in the back. He’d also fed regularly on the cats that’d come hunting the rats until I’d put a stop to that.

  When she’d only known him as her boss, William Delke, Claryce had accepted his offer to use one of his homes in the city after her own place had suffered a fire. We’d both come to realize that the fire had been set by Oberon’s human hoods, but that still had meant that she’d had to stay at the house for a time after I’d settled with the former king of Feirie. Naturally, I’d checked out the place one more time to make certain Oberon’d left nothing behind, then turned my back on Claryce for what I thought was the last time.

  I should’ve known better.

  I pulled up near Fetch’s favorite haunts, found a spot, and decided which alley to try. After parking the Packard, I left the bright streets of Chicago for the eternal darkness of the alley. Fetch always chose the latter, the better not only to be left undisturbed as he ate, but also so that no one might actually see that he wasn’t some mere stray dog.

  The moment I entered the alley, I could sense the presence of Feirie. It was a gift, so to speak, of my merging with the dragon. The guardian of the Gate had to be able to sense intrusions. If I’d been on the Feirie side, I would’ve been able to do the same with a human intruder there. That happened less than the former, but it did happen.

  As a precaution, I summoned the dragon’s vision. The emerald world it revealed made me certain that Fetch would find quite a bounty here. Several meals scurried from view as I stepped deeper into the alley.

  Then, something that wasn’t a rat or even Fetch briefly separated itself from one pile of trash. It was as tall as my waist, but twice as wide as my arm. It moved on all fours, and the three amber orbs it turned in my direction revealed that it knew very well it’d made a mistake by moving.

  I had Her Lady’s gift out in one sweep. The Wyld hissed, then backed a step away. It did not want this fight. It was clearly new to this world, probably having slipped in during one of Oberon’s plots. For now, rats and trash were sufficient food for it, but I couldn’t wait for it to grow strong enough to hunt human prey.

  Unlike the stickman at Saint Boniface, this Wyld seemed to have no appendage that could act as a weapon. Instead, it kept hissing and tried to stand as straight as it could.

  A bug to step on, the dragon commented disdainfully.

  I had to admit that it wasn’t much of a menace, but it was still a Wyld. I raised Her Lady’s gift and approached.

  “Nay, Master Nicholas! Leave him be! He’s jake! I swear!”

  Fetch came barreling down from the opposite direction. As he neared the Wyld, it suddenly dove into hiding behind the trash cans. Fetch ignored it, his attention entirely on me.

  “What’s going on here?” I demanded, sword still ready. “What’s that one doing with you, Fetch?”

  “He’s on the lam from the Court! Her Lady’s purging all who had any sort of loyalty to Oberon from Feirie!”

  His revelation didn’t exactly shock me. Her Lady had moved cautiously when she’d not been certain of Oberon’s death after the Great Fire. Now, though, with absolute proof that her former mate was only a scorched memory, she’d evidently begun making Feirie over entirely in her own image.

  I’d expected more activity among the Wyld with Oberon gone and Her Lady fully in charge, but I’d thought it would take longer to begin. We’d barely gotten past Oberon and the Frost Moon. Her Lady’d clearly been looking forward to this day for a long time.

  That still didn’t explain everything I’d just seen. “You’re shielding a Wyld, Fetch.”

  His ears flattened, but he held his ground. “Not all are Wyld, Master Nicholas. Some of us . . . we just want to live.”

  This is not allowed. . . . It must be slain. This is our purpose . . . you know that . . . Eye know that. . . .

  “Quiet,” I muttered.

  “I swear this one’s no danger!” the shapeshifter insisted, clearly aware to just who I’d been speaking. “He’s harmless! Just a Palooka!”

  I lowered the sword, but kept it pointed toward the trash. “Call him out, Fetch.”

  He hesitated, then let out a single bark. When nothing happened, Fetch barked once more.

  The creature slowly shifted into the open. The three orbs looked from Fetch to me.

  I took its measure. I hadn’t always adhered to the demands of the Gate over the centuries. Fetch and Kravayik were two examples of the exceptions I’d made. Of course, in some ways, I could identify with them. They’d been soldiers
in service to the Court.

  With Her Lady’s gift, I cut a swath in the air before the creature. In its wake, an astounding transformation took place. The four-legged thing became a short, thin, almost human figure with two wide silver eyes, silver hair pressed against the skull, and an extremely narrow face. At first glance someone seeing him would’ve maybe mistaken him for a nude child crouched on hands and knees. Maybe.

  The image faded, replaced by the original creature. The sword had given me a glimpse as to the thing’s ultimate nature. While not a high-ranking servitor of the Court, this was still a being through whom flowed the blood of some randy member of the high caste. The ruling class of Feirie had a habit of doing what they willed with the rest of the realm’s denizens, and in a magical place like Feirie, that often created half-breeds like this.

  By human standards, he was probably hundreds of years old, but by Feirie’s probably still pretty young and not so adept with his powers. He couldn’t have survived so intact in Feirie without the favor of whoever his high-caste parent had been, favor which didn’t necessarily equate to love. Fondness maybe, like a favored pet, not an offspring.

  I still should’ve dealt with him. That was part of my duty. Certainly, Her Lady wanted him dead. Still, I didn’t serve the queen of Feirie, despite what she thought.

  The dragon didn’t hide his disgust with my hesitation. I didn’t care. Given the time to study the creature, I could see that it would never be much more than it was now. This was no sinister servant of Oberon. His only crime had likely been not transferring his loyalty fast enough to the queen.

  “He’s your responsibility,” I finally said to Fetch. At the same time, I replaced the sword in my overcoat.

  “Yes . . . of course. Thank ye, Master Nicholas. Ye are too kind, Master—”

  “Quiet.” I waved a hand toward the trash. The other creature scurried back out of sight. Fetch looked like he wanted to follow. “I came to talk to you about Claryce.”

  “I’ll not go near her again! Cross my heart!”

  I silenced him yet again. “Actually, I want you to show me where to find her.”

  Fetch nodded eagerly. “I’ll do that! Anything for ye, Master Nicholas! Anything!”

  His exaggerated show of eagerness stirred my guilt. “Relax, Fetch. You did nothing wrong in keeping track of her, I suppose. You had the right to do that . . . and I think I’m actually glad you did.”

  How utterly sweet and charming. . . .

  Shut up!

  Fetch remained politely indifferent during my brief clash with the dragon. Only when I gave him a nod did he dare speak up.

  “Don’t know where she is now, but I know where she’ll be later. I heard her make the appointment. Will that do?”

  “Good enough. Tell me.”

  Fetch concentrated, then answered. “She said six-oh-two West Sixty-Third Street. I honestly tried to remember, just in case.”

  He wouldn’t have heard the address so well unless he’d gotten a lot closer to Claryce than he’d admitted, but I let it pass. I gestured the way I’d come. “Come on. You’re sticking with me until then.”

  “As ye like, Master Nicholas.”

  “Your . . . friend . . . going to stay out of trouble here when you’re gone?”

  “Aye, he will. I’ve made this place safe.”

  I hoped I wasn’t making a mistake, but I just nodded again and started back. Within seconds, Fetch was at my side. He kept pace until we reached the end of the alley, then waited. Despite his size and appearance, Fetch could move among people without being noticed unless desired. Still, I always preferred he not take too many chances.

  I went to the Packard first and casually opened the passenger door slightly as I passed it.

  That was when I noticed the thug on the corner.

  Not for a moment had I assumed that Moran’s gang might not know who I was—or rather, who Nick Medea was. While most of those lent to Oberon by Moran had either been killed or arrested by Detective Cortez and his men, there was the chance that someone had gotten back to Moran with my description. The hood trying to look so inconspicuous as he thumbed through a copy of the Tribune at the newsstand was definitely a Mick like most of Moran’s gang. Still, I was surprised he’d found me. Either I’d missed being tailed or he’d come across me by sheer luck.

  If there was any question I was his target, that was answered the moment I climbed inside the Packard. Down went the Trib and off to the side went the spotter. I could already predict a car similar to my own with two other thugs inside waiting just around the corner.

  “What’s eating ye, Master Nicholas?” Fetch suddenly asked next to me.

  “We’ve got friends. Maybe leftovers from Oberon?”

  “Bimbos like that Doolin?”

  I shook my head. “No one could be like Doolin.” Oberon had found himself the nastiest of hoods to make his human enforcer. Doolin had been worthy of any of the Court. But like Oberon, Doolin was dead. “I don’t want to end up leading them to Claryce.”

  “We behind the eight ball, then?” Fetch bared his teeth, showing me that if we were in trouble, he’d stand with me.

  “We’ll see. Hang on.”

  I started the Packard and pulled into traffic. As we reached the intersection I saw out of the corner of my eye a black Studebaker Big Six pull out to follow us. It’d be hard to lose the Big Six on speed alone; even the police were using them more and more. I had to see if the driver knew the streets of Chicago better than I did. I doubted it. I’d had more than fifty years to learn them by heart.

  Even though, according to a last bit of information dragged out of Fetch, we had a few hours until Claryce would be there, I made certain to turn away from West Sixty-Third. I moved along as if not suspecting I was being tailed, letting them get overconfident.

  “What do you see, Fetch?”

  He peered behind us. “Three, Master Nicholas. Driver, two torpedoes.”

  “That including the spotter?”

  “Aye.”

  I already had a route forming in my mind, and the traffic was building up enough to be of benefit. We had a chance to lose the Studebaker fairly quickly after all. “How’re they doing, Fetch?”

  “Just with us. Should be a piece of cake for ye—”

  The second car came out of nowhere, cutting across our path so close all I could do was hit the brake and hope for the best.

  But somehow, the other car swerved expertly out of our path. As it did, I stared at the whitest face I’d seen outside of Max Schreck’s Count Orlok in Nosferatu a couple of years back. He wasn’t much better-looking than the movie vampire, either, with low-lidded pale eyes, a lipless mouth, and barely a snub of a nose.

  Behind him sat a weaselly Mick with an automatic. I dove down behind the wheel even as I steered to the right. Not for a moment did I assume that the gun was just a gun. If there was any chance these were remnants of Oberon’s followers, the gun probably fired something more than normal bullets. I was resilient thanks to the dragon’s power, but not invincible. I’d survived sixteen centuries through skill and luck—especially luck.

  I heard two sharp cracks. The window shattered. Fetch growled and started to leap out.

  “Get back in!” I roared. Horns honked. People screamed. I heard at least one car hit another.

  We ran up on the curb. I had no choice but to keep braking.

  No more shots followed. That didn’t mean we were safe. I waited a moment before carefully peering over the cracked windshield.

  There was no sign of the second car. A quick glance behind us revealed no hint of the first. I grimaced. The Studebaker’d been a distraction. They’d known the direction I’d have to first drive, then set up this ambush while I was likely still in the alley with Fetch.

  A siren howled. I tried to get the Packard back into the street, but the traffic was all gnarled up now. Worse, the source of the siren was already racing into sight. The fact that it was not only a police car but also a black F
ord Runabout made me more certain than ever that someone had set up the situation.

  The Runabout stopped. It didn’t surprise me when out of the vehicle stepped what to many Chicagoans might’ve been the most unlikely member of the police department. His gray suit was immaculate, his short, black hair oiled and groomed. He had in one hand a cigarette I knew probably wasn’t lit. None of that mattered so much though as he was a swarthier-looking man than the two officers who got out to check the scene. Detective Alejandro Cortez was Mexican, the only one of his rank—and maybe any rank—on the force.

  Cortez was very savvy and deserved his rank far more than a lot of those flashing badges around Chicago. Of course, he and I both knew that the only reason he’d gained that rank despite the seeping prejudice in the department was because some higher-up had hit on the idea of having someone who could not only go into the “dirty” places and get something done, but also take the fall if it didn’t shine well on his so-called superiors. In the time I’d known Cortez, he’d nearly risked his life more than a dozen times for little actual gratitude.

  And yet, he still went on.

  “Nick Medea!” Cortez always greeted me as if we hadn’t seen each other in years. In this case, it’d only been a couple of weeks, if that much. “Didn’t expect you when we heard the shots! You do get into a lot of scrapes, Bo, you know?”

  I took a casual glance back. The Packard was empty, of course. Even though Cortez had seen Fetch in the past, I preferred that they didn’t cross paths any more than necessary. Cortez had a sharper eye than most, and he’d not been so certain of my usual explanation concerning Fetch’s supposed canine background.

  Of course, he’d also seen a few other things I’d had trouble explaining. This attempted hit would be one of the easier things I’d needed to clear up.

  Easier . . . not easy.

  The detective peered at my windshield. “Someone’s tried to use a bean-shooter on you. Now why would they try to gun down a ghostbuster, Nick Medea?”

  “Must be a mistake.”

  “Mistakes like that happen a lot around you, Bo, you know?” He straightened, his expression more serious. “You okay?”