Embracing the Shadows

by Gavin Green

  "Have you found any possible matches yet, Scanlon?" Viggo asked.

  Skin shook his head with a small frown. "I've yet to determine who she used for the dirty deed. There was no forced entry, so it had to be someone versed in bypassing security systems. It's either that, or your Beck impersonator had some help."

  We all took a moment to consider the possibilities. From Skin's line of work, I bet he knew all sorts of career criminal types. It could've been one of them, but I doubted it; what self-respecting Adept would use a lowlife for the job? The help could've also come from an Adept's minion who had those kinds of skills. Lastly, Le Meur could have hired or forced another hemo to be an unseen accomplice, one who had a lot of experience in that kind of work. I glanced at Skin for a second, and then let that idea go.

  "One thing at a time," Viggo said. "Concentrate on who the man in the tape could be." He then put a hand on my shoulder. "I will return you to your home now, Leo. You'll need your rest, for tomorrow may prove to be quite eventful."

  INNOCENT

  The first thing I did when I woke up was check the hemo-net for any new notes in the Planner file. Viggo had deleted all the old shit and wrote one new message. Apparently, Skin had come up with a short list of possible matches. I was given one name and more info about him than I needed, all thanks to Natalie and her IRS files. The guy was an 'asst. mgr. of facility security ' at Realm. I was told to "secure subject ASAP and hold in a Deviant location for eventual questioning".

  I shoved some dry goods through the slot into Phillip's room, fed Thunder, and then started making preparations. The Realm guy worked third shift, so I planned on him being asleep when I got there about noon. Banging on the door enough to wake him up, or using a crowbar to gain entry were both really noisy - and therefore really bad - ideas. I also sucked at picking locks, so there was only one option left.

  Hello, internet, almighty mentor of future criminals. I watched a YouTube video on how to make and use a bump-key for getting through a deadbolt. I used the tools up in the dusty assembly room to make a spare key from my old house to look just like the one in the video. Two lock tests later, I was satisfied.

  Under an umbrella to keep the heavy mist off me, I walked a mile or so to a gas station and called a cab from there. I gave the driver the address when he showed up and gave a good tip when he dropped me off. As I walked through the parking lot of the guy's complex, I realized I had mixed feelings about what was going to happen to him. If I was sure he was the guy who set me up, he'd be on the wrong end of my pent-up anger before I turned him over to Viggo. If he wasn't, though, then the poor bastard didn't deserve the day ahead of him. But hey, life sucks - wear a cup.

  The bump-key worked like a charm on the first quick try. Natalie's info told me the guy filed single on his taxes and no one else used his address for theirs, so there was a good chance he lived alone. Inside the apartment, it was roomy, clean and quiet. As suspected, my target was lightly snoring in his bed.

  I stood at the foot of his bed and nudged it. When his eyes crept open, the first thing he saw was a pistol with a silencer pointed at him. "Hello, Mr. Finch," I said evenly. "You're about to have a bad day."

  To his credit, he stayed calm. Propping himself up on the bed, Finch asked, "What do you want?"

  Next to a dresser was a chair with clothes thrown on it. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and tossed them to him. "Put those on," I ordered. I swept the other clothes off the chair, sat down and said, "I'm gonna start with the rules. If there's a gun under your pillow and you go for it, I will shoot you in a place that causes lingering, pants-crapping agony. If you . . . Look, there are a lot of other reasons why I'd shoot you, but only one reason why I won't. Do you get what I'm saying?"

  "Yeah, I get it," he slowly replied while pulling the t-shirt over his head.

  "Lay on your bed, on your stomach, facing me." When he complied, I asked, "Do you know why I paid you a visit, Mr. Finch?" He shook his head. "You might have trouble remembering, but were you recently ordered to do some work at a warehouse? Oh, and before you answer, I should mention that if I think you're lying to me, I will turn your groin to gristle. I'm a very good shot."

  That statement added fear to the wariness and anger in his eyes. "A warehouse? No, I work in the same building every night. I swear."

  I had my fair share of reading the expressions of unreliable Afghani informers, so I knew some of the tell-tale signs. I studied Finch for a second and then said, "Fortunately, I believe you. Unfortunately, I'm not the only person you need to convince."

  Keeping my 9mm trained on him, I got up and moved the pillows. No gun. I then pulled a cover off one of the pillows, stuffed it in my pocket, and told Finch to slip some shoes on. I took his keys and wallet off the dresser, and then let him take a piss - bathroom door open, of course - before we left. I'm a nice guy like that.

  I stayed ten feet behind Finch on the way to his car. He was surprised I knew which one it was; I told him that I had more info on him than he'd be comfortable telling his own mother . . . whose address I also had, by the way. He drove. I sat in the backseat and navigated. We pulled up behind an abandoned building in a desolate neighborhood. After we got out, I bound his wrists behind his back with a spool of thin wire and put the pillowcase over his head. Once I got him in the backseat and told him to lay down, we were on the road again.

  Eight long hours later, Mr. Finch and I were in a small, condemned apartment building not far from where I took over driving his car. The place was listed on the hemo map file as a Deviant hideaway, stocked with a few basic and hidden supplies. Finch was blindfolded, secured to a support beam, and had duct tape over his mouth most of the time. I didn't like doing that to an innocent guy.

  Viggo came up the rickety stairs fifteen minutes after I called him. He motioned for us to speak in another room. "I do not know if you are good at judging a person's character," he said. "Nonetheless, give me your impression of Mr. Finch. Speak plainly, Leo; we are pressed for time this evening."

  "I really don't think Finch is our guy, sir. He obviously works for the wrong people, but I don't think he's a minion. I talked to him a little bit, and I'm pretty good at sniffing out bullshit. He's not a bad guy."

  Nodding, Viggo replied, "I will keep that in mind when he is questioned. As much as I trust you, we can take no chances. You should go find a way back home now; Mr. Finch's vehicle will need to stay here."

  "You, uh, don't want me to stay, sir?"

  "I don't think you would want to. While I have numerous Gifts, I cannot alter memories or perceive lies with penetrating insight. Elder Ragna does have those Gifts, and she will arrive here soon. I doubt you wish to spend more time with her. Moreover, you will need to make yourself ready in whatever attire you deem appropriate; the Open Gathering is later tonight, and we are going to attend."

  TOOL

  I had a blast getting home. No cab was gonna come to the neighborhood I was in, so I had to hoof it over a mile to a safer area. The heavy rain came with gusty winds, rendering my umbrella all but useless. Because of my drowned-dog appearance, I had to prove to the taxi driver that I had money before he'd let me in. I had him stop a few blocks from my place and didn't give much of a tip. I had to use my keys for the first time to get in; I fumbled with 'em in the rain while Thunder watched from the window.

  An hour later I had a meal in my belly, business casual clothes on, and a drink in my hand. A text from the ShadoWorks number told me to be ready by eleven. I had twenty minutes to burn. Thunder was keeping me company in the office, so I decided to give another shot at keeping his gaze. A few minutes into it, Thunder looked out into the hallway and then hopped into my lap. I looked down at him and then back to the doorway. Viggo was standing there with my ancestor's metal goblet in his hand.

  "It is difficult to catch a cat unaware," he said conversationally. "You don't seem very surprised, either."

  "Uh, no sir. Some of my latest dreams involving you have been about you
showing up unexpectedly or just lurking in a dark spot. I'm getting used to it."

  Viggo shrugged. "As I understand it, a minion who shares strong affinities with his lord will have glimpses in his sleep of a past not his own. You and I were once warriors, and we both hold similar values in high regard. I am therefore not surprised that I am the occasional focus of your dreams." He sat down across the desk from me and changed the topic. "You should know some things before we go."

  "Yes sir, I was wondering about a few things."

  "I thought you might be." He set the goblet in front of me and continued. "To begin with, you were correct - Mr. Finch was not the culprit. Ragna erased today's events from his mind. I drove him back to his apartment, put him back in bed, and placed a spilled bottle of sleeping pills on his bedside table. Mr. Finch will rationalize a reasonable excuse from there; the human mind is amazingly adaptive."

  "Alright, great, I'm glad I was right about that. Then, uh, if Finch wasn't the imposter, who was?" I picked up the ornate goblet. It was half full, and the dark liquid inside carried the aroma of secrets and power and Jack Daniels. I downed it all at once.

  Viggo absently gazed out the window behind me. His thick brows came down into a scowl, and flowing strips of shadow began to blur his form when he said, "Edward Galloway. He could have cut his hair to any shorter fashion; it would return to its original length the following night. Cheap Halloween kits can make believable scar tissue, and appear even more realistic from a short distance."

  "That motherfucker," I growled. Ragna had the right idea when she wanted Galloway taken out, but I didn't want to admit that out loud . . . or even at all.

  "Mr. Galloway was the tool, and I believe there was a hand that used him. Most certainly an Adept. I strongly suspect Emmeline Le Meur, although there is no proof to support my claim."

  "Will he be at the Open Gathering?" I asked, handing the goblet back to him.

  "If Mr. Galloway has no concerns of being found out, then he will attend for the sake of socializing. If, however, he has paranoid tendencies, the Gathering is one of the few places he is safe. To be clear, the Doyenne will declare the location of any Gathering to be Civil Ground, if only temporarily. Either way, Mr. Galloway will be there."

  Viggo's angry shadows were fading, which was a relief. I had a stupid question, but decided to ask it anyway. "I guess that when I see him there, I'm not allowed to shoot him in the face. A lot."

  "Sorry, no," Viggo said with a hint of regret. "Weapons are not allowed on Civil Ground, excluding the Doyenne's enforcer. Violence of any sort will not be tolerated. The use of any Gift, however innocuous, is also forbidden. These rules have been in place for centuries. You will adhere to them."

  "Of course, sir." I pulled my Ruger out of a pocket and set it on the desk. "When are we going?"

  "Mr. O'Shaughnessy will arrive at any moment. We will ride with him."

  Viggo and I started discussing Thunder and the Gift of Fauna when a car honked out front. We walked out and saw an oversized black cargo van, extended and with a raised roof. Skin hopped out of the passenger door wearing a brown velvet tracksuit and tan pageboy cap. I would have laughed at nearly anyone else wearing that outfit, but the pimp/ridiculous mix didn't look bad on him.

  Skin first bowed his head to Viggo and then said to me, "You sit up front with Kurt, kid."

  While Skin opened one of the rear doors for him and Viggo, I climbed into the passenger seat. Behind the wheel was one of Skala's mammoth men, who stared at me indifferently. "You must be Kurt," I said, trying to be pleasant. He only nodded. I looked over my shoulder into the back of the van; it looked like the inside of one of those mobile command units that police use. Two chairs on casters sat in front of a bank of electronic equipment and monitors that took up one whole side of the van.

  I was about to ask what was going on when Kurt held a piece of paper in front of my face. "I need route. GPS ist scheisse," he grunted in broken English. "You know this place?"

  I looked at the address written on the paper and . . . son of a bitch. "Yeah, I know it," I said with a sigh. It was the Everett mansion.

  CAMERA

  "Mr. Skala's tie clip has been fitted with a miniature recording device," Viggo began to explain as we drove through the night. His understanding of modern technology was a little sketchy.

  "If I may, elder?" Skin said to him. I was watching the road, so I assume Viggo gave him a nod to put things in simpler terms. "It's a spy cam, and it picks up audio. It gets fed to one of the receivers back here. Mr. Skala's limo is waiting near the Everett place. When we pull up behind it, I'll go turn his cam on and ride the last couple hundred yards with him to the valets waiting out front."

  "Leo, you and I will watch the monitor for a time," Viggo told me. "When the Doyenne calls for a formal convening, we shall join the festivities."

  "Yes sir. Uh, what exactly is a convening?"

  "During a Gathering, a Doyen - or sometimes a faction emissary - will call for all in attendance to congregate for the purpose of bearing witness to decrees of various sorts. Those decrees range from granting progeny to administering justice, with many things in between."

  "I've got this set to record," Skin said to Viggo. "I'll have to watch it later on. The reactions to your scion should be damn entertaining. And that won't be the best part!"

  We made it to the upscale neighborhood. I gave Kurt more instructions until our van finally pulled up behind a limo parked a few lawns away from Everett's. Skin hopped out and got into the limo. Viggo told me to come watch the monitor with him. The camera came on just as I was sitting down. We couldn't see much inside the dark limo, but the screen brightened when Skala stepped out a minute later.

  Two guards were waiting on either side of the wide front door. Holy crap, they were Frank Cantrell and Carla Dykowski, the detectives who tried to fuck with me a couple months before.

  "Do you know those people, Leo?" Viggo asked. "You had a reaction."

  "Yes sir, I know 'em. I told you about my run-in with those two outside of a bar a while back. They were also probably the ones who passed along my ties with Phillip Aoki to Le Meur, although they actually work for Dominic Riva. I owe them one for Phillip."

  "Ah, I see. The path to your retribution may be clear; I happen to know that Mr. Riva is currently out of action. As for how much the Doyenne might interfere in the future . . ." Viggo shrugged.

  On the screen, Skala walked into the large, chandelier-lit foyer. Moses Dupree stood there, most likely to greet hemos and announce their arrival. Skala was evidently not covering his true appearance; Dupree flinched, but composed himself pretty quick. When Skala gave his name and title, Dupree looked like he crapped himself. I was fairly sure that was impossible for a hemo, but I liked the reaction.

  "Is it another rule that your people can't lie when on Civil Ground?" I wondered out loud. "Otherwise, couldn't some other unknown Deviant claim to be Mr. Skala?"

  "Fabrications are a part of gatherings," Viggo said. "Some of my own faction members revel at selling lies at these social functions. I find them distasteful. Countering your query is Mr. Dupree, whose Gift of Discerning is quite strong. At his level of ability, knowing fact from falsehood is involuntary. When my scion spoke, Mr. Dupree automatically knew his words to be true."

  Aldo Skala moved leisurely around the huge house, muttering short hellos to everyone who bowed to him or gave a respectful greeting. Barnabus Merritt came up to him a little while later, offering a handshake and a monster's smile. They started speaking in German, so I took that as my chance to talk to Viggo again. "It seems like anyone who knows Mr. Skala is kissing his ass, sir."

  "As well they should," he replied. "Herr Aldo Skala is nearly twelve hundred years old - an ancient Eidolon to most. He led war parties for my people in the centuries after he was brought into the night, although he was originally a Pomeranian. Tiring of war as I did, he turned his interests to espionage for profit. A few decades before the time of your American Revolut
ion, Herr Skala took to slumber deep in Deviant-carved catacombs below Munich. An occurrence during your Second World War stirred him; he claimed the city and has ruled it well ever since. He is preceded by his age and his blood, which is more potent than most active elders. The name of my scion is known to many."

  Unlike Viggo, who was busy keeping an oath for the sake of my lineage, his own progeny had a chance to sleep for a while. I tried not to dwell on the guilt and moved on. "There are more people in there than I expected. I've seen some faces that I recognize and a few I don't, but hardly any Deviants - only Skin, Mr. Merritt and Roach so far. Does your faction avoid these parties for some reason?"

  Viggo pointed to the screen as Skala's cam shifted one way or another. "Some in attendance are merely minions. You will notice they never sit, and stay near their lords or ladies. Some of us bring a minion to a Gathering on occasion, although many do not. Attempting to bring an entourage is frowned upon. As for the absence of some of my faction members, those not presented to the Doyenne will not attend for obvious reasons. I have yet to see Ragna or her scion, Mr. Vestergaard, but they may have . . ."

  He was distracted by something that the audio picked up in the background - a crash and some yelling. Hmm, something was amiss in the house of hemos. The view on the monitor turned chaotic from all the sudden movement of people around Skala. The scene began to steady as he pressed forward through a small crowd of onlookers. Someone screeched. A male voice yelled, "Lady, no!" And then a raspy bellow echoed through the mansion, a roar of rage that formed one word: "YOUUUU".

  I knew that voice. Ragna had made it to the party after all, and no one was happy to see her.

  OFFENSE

  Skala's cam faced the center of the large foyer. Thick chunks and shards of wood littered the marble floor. I guessed that's what was left of the front door. Also down on the deck among the debris was Moses Dupree, bleeding heavily from one ear and scooting to the far side of the crowd.