Black City Demon

by Richard A. Knaak

  I wasn’t too happy with all his concern for me. “It isn’t all right between us, Diocles. If you do actually need me to forgive you before you can move on, you’re in for a disappointment.”

  “I know better than that, Georgius. It is my lot to wait and wait.”

  “Better that fate than losing your head.”

  He grimaced. “Wait for sixteen hundred years and see if you feel that way.”

  I refrained from remarking about my own fate, bound to the portal forever unless I let some Wyld take me. There’d been times when I’d thought about allowing that to happen, but then I’d also thought about what might happen after I was dead. There’d also been the knowledge that Cleolinda might keep reincarnating. Now that I’d found Claryce, I was especially interested in not dying. At the very least, I needed to be there for her.

  As I wasn’t for Claudette.

  “Just . . . stay out of Father Jonathan’s sight and hearing.” I surveyed the pews. “Did you see where Kravayik went?”

  “A quiet one, he is . . . but yes. There came a tapping, a gentle tapping, at the church door.”

  It’d have to have been gentle for me not to hear it. “Fetch, maybe.”

  “The mongrel? Does he not generally howl or something?”

  He had a point there, but I preferred the thought of Fetch over some other possibilities. Still, I had no choice but to take a peek outside . . . unless . . .

  “Are you able to stick your head outside without opening the door?”

  “I have not tried in many a century.” He faded away, then reappeared next to the entrance. “Let me see.”

  Diocles thrust his head into the heavy door nearest him. I winced in natural anticipation of a collision, but instead an odd plume of translucent smoke formed wherever Diocles touched the door, or at least the barrier it represented.

  He continued leaning into the door until his entire head had vanished. The plume grew at the same time, becoming a small cloud attached to the ghost at the shoulders.

  The emperor pulled back. The plume reversed, filling in the head.

  “I could see nothing past the door, not even one glimpse of the outside,” Diocles bitterly reported.

  “Good. Don’t try that again. Especially if I’m with you.”

  He gave me a quizzical look as I joined him by the entrance, but kept quiet. With the utmost caution, I opened the door a crack.

  Let me out! Let me out! the dragon insisted.

  “For what?” Cleveland Avenue was empty. Far away, I could hear a coronet playing some faint Creole jazz worthy of Freddie Keppard, who I’d seen a few times down on the South Side. The music was likely coming from a flapper party in another part of North Town, which meant it was probably recorded, not live. Other than the coronet and its accompaniment, the rising wind was the only sound.

  I stepped outside. Shutting the door behind me, I turned so that the wind was at my back, then muttered, “Come to me, Fetch.”

  For good measure, I whistled briefly. Yeah, he often answered just like an actual dog.

  But this time, there was no replying howl. Ignoring the weather, I went to the street corner and summoned the dragon’s eyes. I’d seen enough of Cleveland to know there was nothing down either direction for some distance, but only now did I have a good view of Eugenie.

  There was a car three blocks down. I couldn’t tell for certain, but its outline resembled the Chrysler that’d been chasing us enough for me to want to take a closer look.

  Then, I caught sight of something moving near the car, something on four legs.

  Fetch.

  Throwing away caution, I raced toward the Chrysler. I’d barely gotten half a block when Fetch’s silhouette vanished into the auto.

  I expected the sounds of a violent struggle, but there was nothing. As I neared, Fetch thrust his head out of the other side of the Chrysler. He was sniffing the air. His flattened ears signaled that he wasn’t liking what he did or didn’t smell.

  He noticed me approaching. His tongue lolled in what I knew to be relief. “Master Nicholas! Come see!”

  “What happened to you?” I asked as I headed to him.

  “Thought there might be some hoods following after us hoping to bump off you and Mistress Claryce! I felt like a palooka the way I let you down by the cathedral. . . .”

  “You didn’t let us down. You tried to warn us.”

  He pulled back as I leaned in to see what so bothered him about the car.

  There were two gunsels in the front seat. Both looked as if they’d died screaming even though we hadn’t heard anything. Other than that, they appeared untouched. A quick study of each showed no sign of what’d killed them, but I already had a suspicion.

  “This breezer wasn’t here when we arrived,” Fetch offered, referring, in his usual manner of trying to keep up with the current human slang, to the fact that this car was a convertible. “I circled the church and there it was. I stalked it slowly, surely expecting something nasty inside . . . and found this pair of button men just like this.”

  He was right about them looking like more than just hoods with guns. Both men had that professional look. Unlike the pair that’d attacked me, these two had probably been pretty good shots.

  Thinking about that, I looked down at the hand of the one in the passenger side. It took me a moment to find his gun, which lay on the floor between his feet. I came around then picked it up. From the unique, acrid powder smell, it’d been fired at least once . . . another sound I’d not heard.

  As I leaned back, another thing bothered me. All the windows were open, certainly not something I’d expect in this weather.

  I heard a slight whistling. Peeking inside I counted two bullet holes in the convertible roof.

  “Fetch, I need you to use your nose again. Can you still smell the scents of these two?”

  “Oh, assuredly! The driver, he smells of a dame who likes too much perfume, and the other, he likes Luckys, just like Master Alejandro!”

  That was the first time I’d heard him call Cortez that. I put that aside to question later, more concerned with what’d happened here. “What else do you smell? Anyone else?”

  He took a deep sniff. His tail wagged. “A third hood! He was in the backseat where I am, but his smell ain’t so strong! He must’ve hightailed it, Master Nicholas!”

  I had a growing suspicion that he’d not. Or at least, only his body’d moved on. “Try harder, Fetch. Any subtle traces of Wyld?”

  “Nay . . . I think.” His lupine/canine face twisted into what might’ve been a comical expression at other times. “Wait. . . .”

  “How does Lon smell to you?” I asked pointedly. “The Feir’hr Sein?”

  In answer, Fetch sniffed again . . . and again. Finally, “Oh, he’s a sneaky one, but ye have it right, Master Nicholas! He was here! He’s done these torpedoes in! He’s the one!”

  I’d wondered where the Feir’hr Sein had gotten to. Now I knew. He’d continued to shadow us, no doubt seeking any clue to this Lysander. These hoods had made the mistake of being here at just the wrong time.

  The last Feir’hr Sein I’d had to deal with had taken the body of a guard at a bootlegging operation and tried to use that to infiltrate Oberon’s operation. That hadn’t gone so well, with Oberon showing why he’d once been ultimate ruler of Feirie. There’d not been much left of the Feir’hr Sein after Oberon had finished torturing him.

  I wasn’t sure just what Lon hoped to accomplish with the body he’d grabbed, but I couldn’t let him get in the way of things. From what I’d seen, the Feir’hr Sein had no sense of justice, only fulfilling their mistress’s orders. If I had to, I’d use Her Lady’s gift on Her Lady’s servant, and damned be any repercussions.

  “What about Kravayik? Was he around here, too?”

  Fetch ran his nose over part of the car before answering. “Can’t smell him anywhere around this jalopy. Maybe he didn’t notice it?”

  “Kravayik? Even blind, deaf, and dumb, Kravayik
’d be able to find this car in the middle of night and deal with all three men.”

  Fetch cocked his head and didn’t argue.

  It bothered me I didn’t know where Kravayik was, but that wasn’t so important a matter as doing something about this car. I didn’t want the police finding two dead gunsels so near to Saint Michael’s. Somehow I knew that’d catch the attention of Cortez, a headache I didn’t need in addition to the rest.

  “Keep in the backseat and out of sight, Fetch.”

  Once he’d obeyed, I quickly dragged the driver from the front seat to the back, then rolled up the windows. Satisfied that the true state of two of my passengers wouldn’t be noticed in the dark, I climbed in behind the wheel. I already had an idea where to drop off the car. It’d mean a bit of a walk back, but it was necessary.

  I drove to the intersection of Wells Street and North Avenue, which marked the near end of North Town and any possible connection to Saint Michael’s or me—then pulled over. Fetch immediately leapt out of the car. I checked the area, then quickly transferred the driver back to his original seat.

  “What now, Master Nicholas?”

  “Now you talk a lot quieter,” I murmured.

  His tail drooped in apology. I gave him a short wave indicating I wasn’t mad, then considered the trek back.

  I can help . . . let me give you wings to fly, wings to ease your travels . . . wings . . .

  “Get thee behind me,” I growled, not for the first time in our sixteen centuries of servitude together. Whenever he talked like that, offered so much so willingly, my distrust for him grew tenfold greater than it generally was . . . which was saying a hell of a lot.

  I started walking. Only when I was a good two blocks from the dead hoods did I begin to relax . . . which, of course, meant that something happened.

  “Master Nicholas. Some hayburner coming from the street to our right.”

  The “hayburner” was an old Ford Model T that’d definitely seen better days. As it neared, I saw two male figures inside.

  I hoped that the driver would just keep going. He didn’t. I kept my hand where I could draw the sword if necessary. I couldn’t be sure that these weren’t friends of the dead goons.

  The driver opened his window. It took me a second to recognize Officer Kowalski in civilian clothes. Next to him was a slender Negro roughly the same age. Both men wore heavy coats.

  I didn’t believe in coincidence.

  “Do you need— Hello, you’re Mr. Medea, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. It’s Kowalski, isn’t it? What brings you out this way?”

  “Lincoln and me”—he indicated his passenger without any hint of wariness that I’d found him in mixed company—“we were headed for a party near here.”

  I caught a glimpse of anxiousness from Lincoln when Kowalski mentioned the party. I knew what the rookie meant and gathered that he thought since I was so reasonable about a Mexican on the police force that I’d not have a problem with two lone men on their way to a party in this area. In my service as a tribune to the empire, I’d seen relations of all sorts. I’d also come to know the depths and—complexities—of Feirie, against which nothing human could ever compare. It wasn’t my way, but it wasn’t something I was concerned about, either.

  “That’s probably the jazz I heard earlier.”

  “You like jazz? Lincoln plays the horn! He’s gonna be another Louie Armstrong!”

  “Bill, stop it,” his friend responded with a slight, sheepish grin.

  Kowalski added his own grin. “It’s true.” To me he said, “Sorry, Mr. Medea! My mother’d hate my manners these days. It’s Bill, just like Lincoln said.”

  And just like Bill Haines, I thought, wondering if the rookie knew how much he had in common with the actor. I doubted anyone in the precinct knew about Kowalski’s outside life, considering his face was devoid of any bruises. “I’m Nick.”

  “We saw you out in the cold and thought we’d see if you needed a ride.”

  “I’m good. Just a short distance to go. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Bill’s gonna be a regular taxi tonight if he keeps this up,” Lincoln chimed with a little more confidence. “First the old man, now you.”

  Kowalski glanced back at him. “Hey, Michael was the bee’s knees, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he was a funny bird, but swell.”

  Neither saw me stiffen at the name. “Michael? From the coroner? You picked him up near here?”

  “Not so near, but on the way. He said he was heading out to see his son. Said that tomorrow they were going over to the meadows on Lawrence Street.” Kowalski shook his head. “Don’t know why I remember that, but that’s what he said.”

  “The meadows on Lawrence Street,” I muttered.

  “Yeah.” Kowalski jabbed a thumb behind him. “Sure you don’t want a ride? It’s not a great night.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

  “Okay. We’re gonna get a wiggle on, then!” As the rookie rolled up his window, Lincoln gave me a smile and wave.

  I nodded as the pair drove off, then whispered, “Fetch.”

  “I am here.”

  “You heard?”

  “Sounds like quite a blow they’re going to. . . .”

  I held back a growl. “I meant about Michael.”

  “He’s going to a meadow with his son. That sounds like a nice time, Master Nicholas. Could we go to a meadow sometime?”

  “Are you sure you aren’t really a dog?” Before he could make some response, I went on. “Michael. You remember Michael. Like as in Saint Michael’s.”

  To his credit, all trace of innocence vanished from Fetch’s expression. “Oh. Not good, is that? He’s a real bean-picker, that one! He only comes if there’s a real problem.”

  We really didn’t have actual proof that old Michael was actually the saint or if even that the saint had actually lent a hand—or foot or talon or whatever they were called since part of the time he’d also maybe been a black bird—but it seemed a likely bet.

  And now, after popping up at the edge of things a couple of times, Michael Maybe-the-Saint’d sent what I could only imagine was a message to me through Kowalski. I didn’t know why he couldn’t speak directly to me, but he’d tried as much as he could, I suppose . . . if I wasn’t making everything up to suit my own tastes.

  Still . . . a meadow on Lawrence Street.

  There was no meadow on Lawrence Street, not in the city. There was, however, a place somewhat like a meadow, a place Fetch and I had visited only recently.

  Saint Boniface cemetery . . . where maybe this whole thing’d begun.

  CHAPTER 15

  By the time I left with Claryce from Saint Michael’s, I’d committed several hopefully minor sins, most of them involved with lies building on other lies I’d told Father Jonathan before. Away from Claryce, I told him I hadn’t found any evidence of a haunting, but that I’d look into it again shortly. That was after I’d warned Diocles to stick to the shadows as much as possible.

  I also didn’t tell Claryce what’d happened outside, save that Kravayik had evidently departed for Holy Name. I had no idea whatsoever whether he’d done that and couldn’t worry about him at the moment, but I knew that he hadn’t told us everything about what’d happened to Claudette . . . or how much he knew about this elf, Lysander.

  None of that mattered, though, not to me. What did was that I needed to get to Saint Boniface . . . and without Claryce.

  I suggested we drive to her apartment so that she could get a change of clothes. We didn’t mention getting any rest in front of the priest, who might’ve taken it wrong. As it was, I knew by the time we got to Claryce’s place, the question of moving on afterward would be moot.

  There was no chance of getting Fetch inside, but he was happy to curl up inside the Wills, which was parked out front of the building.

  She stifled a yawn as we entered. “There’s some leftover ham and some fruit in
the kitchen, if you want them. Some root beer, too. Sorry, none of that tar you call coffee.”

  “I’m fine.” Ever the gracious host, Father Jonathan’d finally insisted on feeding us from his meager stores despite our protests. I’d made certain to leave a donation behind to more than cover it when he wasn’t looking.

  I sat down and waited. The moment I heard her returning, I leaned back and shut my eyes as if I’d been asleep for several minutes. Only when she got close did I pretend to wake.

  She took the bait. “Nick, maybe we’d better get some rest before we do anything else.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. We’ll get some sleep, then decide what to do next.” I stretched out on the couch. “We should be okay until dawn.”

  Claryce nodded. “All right. If you need anything, you know where I am, Nick.”

  I pretended not to notice her nervous but inviting tone. We’d only been thrown together a short time, yet I could see that Claryce could not only feel some of the emotions that’d traveled from one incarnation to the next, but also others unique to her. As for me, hell, I was caught between what I’d experienced for Cleolinda and some of her past lives and a new, unsettling-in-many-ways realization of how there was something different about Claryce.

  How, if I didn’t do every damned thing I could to keep her alive, it’d be more than just the loss of another incarnation. This time, I’d be losing a good piece of whatever was left of my soul.

  That was why the minute I was certain she was asleep I got up and cautiously made a call.

  “Master—er—Nick?” Barnaby answered. It wasn’t all that surprising that he’d guessed it was me. No one else’d be calling at this time.

  “The Packard. Is it finished?”

  “Yes. Yes. I only awaited your word as to where to have it sent. Do you want it now?”

  I was asking a lot from him, but I needed the Packard. “Yeah. Bring it here.” I gave him Claryce’s address. “Hurry, if you can.”

  “I will bring it myself. Ten minutes.” Barnaby paused. “I went to see Joseph again. He has not changed since our last visit. He stares intently at the shadows.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It is what it is.” He hung up.