by Gwynn White
Gragos was taken aback by Cato’s rebuttal. Clearly this was breaking news to him. “I… did not know this. My apologies.”
“It’s all right. I understand,” Cato said. “You’ve got more than enough of your own problems to grapple with. My point is, it’s not a competition. No one here gets a prize for having the crappiest day. Can we at least agree to that much?”
“Point taken. All our communities are bleeding this day.”
“Exactly,” Cato said. “And acts of vengeance or reprisal aren’t helping anybody, so let’s all try to rein in our people, all right?”
“Understood. I shall speak to my operations manager about reaching out to some of the more… reactionary elements within our community.”
Oh, this just keeps getting better and better, Cato thought dismally. “Yeah, about that—”
“Yes?”
“Your operations manager attempted to stage a takeover of the scene,” Aziani informed Cairn, reasserting herself. “He and his compatriots were subdued and arrested, but not before Chief Banner was wounded. She is currently being evaluated for injuries sustained during the scrum. That, Kovar Cairn, is why you get her deputy and not the chief herself.”
Cairn cursed softly, shaking his head at the news. “The fools. No doubt they meant to attend the ceremony.”
“It would explain how they showed up on scene so quickly,” Cato agreed.
“I will be sure to have words with Crius after I have posted his bail.”
“No bail.”
“Excuse me?”
“There will be no bail,” Aziani informed him drily. “Your man put the chief of detectives in the hospital. He could have killed her. A message has to be sent.”
“And that message would be—?”
“That he remains sidelined until she is not. As for the others, you are free to post their bail at your leisure.”
Narrowing his eyes, Cairn met the diminutive detective stare for stare. She stood her ground, utterly unflappable beneath his wilting gaze. At length, he withdrew the challenge, nodding slowly. “Very well. That is an agreeable arrangement. Perhaps some time in custody will be good for Crius.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “Would it at least be possible to speak with him?”
“I can arrange to have a message delivered.”
“Thank you.” With a last, pained look to the remains scattered about the floor, Cairn nodded. “I have taken up enough of your time. I shall leave you to your investigation.”
“I would be grateful if you would allow me to finish properly introducing myself, Kovar.”
Stopping mid-step, Cairn turned back to regard the deputy detective. “Yes. Yes, of course. My apologies, Detective. Please, continue.”
“Thank you,” she said. “As my colleague indicated, I am Nissa Aziani. Let me first say that it is most unfortunate we must make each other’s acquaintance in this fashion. I am deeply offended by the atrocious acts that have been committed against your people, and I will do my utmost to bring those responsible to justice. With that said, I am inclined to offer you and your entourage temporary access to the crime scene, so that you may recover what remains of your people.”
Aziani’s offer was met with disbelief, even shock. For a moment, Cato thought Cairn might actually be speechless. He recovered quickly enough, though, and said, “That is most gracious of you, Detective Aziani. You are certain the remains are not required for your investigation?”
“Yes. Moreover, I believe your people will have better luck identifying them than mine would. All I ask is that you forward a list of their identities for our records as it becomes available.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Then, the scene is yours. My people will not interfere with the process unless asked for their assistance.”
Several minutes later, the first of Cairn’s entourage entered the sanctuary. One by one, they filed through to behold the destruction of their own, their numbed expressions speaking to the shock value of the scene. Cato and the PWD personnel stood along the edges of the sanctuary, heads bowed respectfully as the gargoyles linked arms and lifted their voices to a produce a low, keening rumble not unlike throat-singing. A ritual song for the dead, Cato had come to understand over the years. It built upon itself with each short verse, expanding and filling the room, becoming one with the sanctuary and the sacred stones from which it had been constructed.
When the song reached its terminus, all that remained was the unspeakable task before them. Their voices falling away, the gargoyles began to gather what was left of their dead even as the sacred stones reverberated with the harmonies they had created together.
11
Erastes was in the throes of crescendo. His chest was heaving and his hair was wild with effort as he worked toward a finish many hours in the making. With a final, enormous surge, he thrust the ends of the squeezebox toward one another and lifted his voice in perfect harmony with the long, ululating note it produced.
At last the shrill notes bled into the ether, leaving him to bask in reflective silence. Eyes focusing, ears registering the sudden absence of sound. He was enveloped inside his spacious office, the last echoes ringing off the walls as he sat bare-chested and cross-legged atop his desk. He recalled beginning in his chair as usual, but something in the moment must have moved him to mount the desk. Better acoustics, perhaps? Something more ephemeral? No matter. It was all coming together, bit by bit.
Then he checked the time. Had it really been four hours? And he was only up to the aria…
He had barely reached the midpoint of his kind’s struggles on Earth, and already the runtime was approaching 36 hours. His brood-mate had warned him about that; no one wanted to suffer through a regular opera, she had told him, let alone one that spanned several days’ time. Perhaps he would need to pare it down to a more reasonable length, after all. Yet the very notion was anathema to him, akin to neutering the long and storied history of the strigoi. Whatever was a proud and noble vampire to do?
Could it be that he was too discerning? That he had too exacting an eye for detail? Was such a thing even possible? The notion troubled him somehow. Perhaps he was too focused on the minutiae to see the grander narrative. But what was he to leave out? From the opening hours of the Nothnocti Wars to the armistice and the reconciliation effort that had followed, it was all interconnected, a knot that could not be undone without stealing strength from the whole. There had to be a middle ground he was not seeing.
Erastes was still mulling over the matter when a knock at the door broke his concentration. He had been clear that he was only to be disturbed in the event of an emergency, and the knock did have a rather urgent quality to it. He brought the accordion together with a crinkling bleat of frustration, laid the thing aside and decamped from his desk. Best not to be seen in a potentially compromising situation, even if it was inside his own office.
“Come ahead,” he said once he had shrugged back into his jacket. Crimson and collarless, it slid around the whipcord musculature of his torso like a second skin. A pair of discreet slits in the back allowed his miniature wings to slide through and fold softly against the fabric.
“Your lordship, forgive me for disturbing you, but matters in the city have taken a dramatic turn since this morning.”
“How so?”
“Since the assassination of Hezekiel Stone, there have been two new attacks, each striking across established community boundaries.”
“I see. The first attack?”
“One of our blood banks, sire. Fifteen wights were slaughtered and strung from the ceiling.”
Erastes’ eyes widened. “And the minders?” he asked, aghast.
“All five dead. Throats cut, taken into the back. That’s not all, though. PWD found the words ‘Blood for Stone’ on the scene.”
“And you’re only bringing me this now?”
“Begging your pardon, sire, but we’ve only just confirmed the details from PWD,” the servant said. “That, an
d you were very specific about needing to work on your opera.”
“Yes, yes, very well. Does PWD have any suspects?”
“Not specifically, but our source overheard one of the detectives suggest the possibility that it could be the work of the Wargoyles.”
“An act of reprisal,” he mused. “So, it’s come to this once more.”
“I’m afraid that’s not all, sire.”
“Oh? Right, right. The second incident.” He braced himself with a sip of clove wine, then nodded. “Very well. Out with it.”
“An attack on the annual gargoyle seeding ceremony. It’s unclear how many are dead, but sources say that a solar flare was used.”
“Did you just say what I think you said?”
“Yes, sire. A solar flare.”
The very mention of such a device was enough to set Erastes’ blood afire. Fisting his hands at his side, it was all he could do not to lash out at the bearer of such ill news. Strigoi history was replete with tales of such barbaric devices. Whole warrens incinerated in an instance. Dozens, sometimes hundreds of strigoi reduced to ash. He had toured many of those sites during his reign. He had seen the fury of the solar flare firsthand, felt the still-warm ash of his subjects slip through his fingers.
That said, the use of such a specific device was an interesting wrinkle. Solar flares had been banned under the Acts of Reconciliation for some time. While he had heard of their occasionally being used on gargoyles, they were designed primarily to target his people. The upshot was that the devices were especially loathed within the strigoi community; any of his people caught using or even possessing one would face permanent exile, to say nothing of potential execution. The risk and the stigma were simply too great to justify any perceived reward, even among the most extreme elements.
Calming himself at last—though he had shown not even the slightest hint of his embodied rage—Erastes said, “I must speak with Kovar Cairn.”
“Lord Ensanguine—”
“Inform the antennerae and make the arrangements.”
“At once, sire.”
Alone again, Erastes pushed his hands through his long alabaster hair. They could not go back to the ways of the past, not now, not after all the progress that had been forged. Surely a single day’s tragedies could not undo all that had been achieved, could they?
He looked to his desk, thinking to calm himself with a bit of composing while he waited. It was only then that he saw the accordion had expanded since he had discarded it, taking the shape of a crookedly crinkled grin that leered up at him from the desktop.
An omen? he thought. Then he scoffed, shoving the accordion aside in favor of another sip of clove wine. He’d sooner read the dregs at the bottom of the goblet than seek the counsel of such a noisy, ancient contraption.
It took nearly an hour to raise Gragos via the antennarae, but finally the connection was made. Erastes settled into the supple leather chair at the invitation of the antennerae’s operator, nodding as he pointed to the relevant switch. “When you’re ready, just flip that up. That will turn on the mic. The line is already established.”
“Thank you, Vesteci. You may leave now.”
“Of course, sire. When you have finished, you need only flip the same switch down to kill the mic. I’ll take care of the rest.” With that, Vesteci bowed and made himself scarce. The soundproof door sealed behind him, leaving Erastes to gather his thoughts.
As if he needed more time. Pursing his lips, Erastes flipped the switch.
“Kovar Cairn, it’s good to speak with you again. This is Erastes Ensanguine. I would say good evening, but, given the circumstances, I shall instead offer my condolences. The loss of Hezekiel Stone will be long felt among both our communities.”
“Gratitude, Corvare Ensanguine,” came the kovar’s response after a short delay. “I apologize if I kept you waiting. It has been, shall we say, a most trying day.”
“Not at all, not all. I understand, given that I was only recently informed of the attack on your annual seeding ceremony.”
“Terrible business. I have only just come from the scene.” A long pause gripped the connection, so much so that Erastes was wondering if it hadn’t been severed when Gragos said, “I must confess, my own daughter was among those lost.”
Erastes reeled as Gragos divulged that he, too, had been a victim of the attack. The news proved an unexpected bit of good fortune. The loss of his daughter was a cruel and terrible turn of events for Gragos, but it only served to strengthen Erastes’ case all the more. “Gods above and beyond, Gragos,” he said, taking the opportunity to revert to a first-name basis. “I had no idea. I cannot begin to imagine what you must be going through. Do you—” He summoned a rueful sigh, as if he didn’t want to ask. “Do you know if she suffered? I pray that was not the case.”
For all his grief, Gragos rallied impressively. “No,” he said, his voice reclaiming its usual commanding timbre. “No, we do not believe so. The weapon used was a solar flare. I understand your people are intimately acquainted with them.”
The time had come, Erastes knew. Seizing upon the opportunity presented to him by Gragos, he shared in its sentiment. “The solar flare is among the most insidious and vile creations ever imagined by wights. Untold lineages of my people were reduced to smoldering ash during the Nothnocti Wars—lines that can never be replaced or renewed.”
“Having seen the effects firsthand, I can well understand your hatred for such devices.” Taking a moment to compose himself, the kovar continued. “The terrorists who ambushed our seeding ceremony were not content merely to turn my people to stone. They bashed them to pieces with sledgehammers afterward. I… I held my daughter’s broken cheek in my hand.”
Erastes was not a man typically given to speechlessness, but that detail rendered him so nonetheless. Several moments of silence passed through the line, only a slight hissing indicating that they were still connected.
At last, Erastes spoke up once again. “A more vile and villainous act I can scarcely comprehend. Those responsible must be held to the ultimate account.”
“My sentiments precisely. I take it you are calling to reassure me that your people were not responsible for this treachery, as you say?”
“We most assuredly were not,” Erastes confirmed.
“And what of the assassination of Hezekiel Stone and his colleagues? I have been told that witnesses described the attackers as Steelskins.”
“Then I am afraid you have been misinformed. The Steelskin Slayers are no more. They are a vestige of another time.”
“A time it would seem we are circling back toward.”
“One hopes that not to be the case. Though I do have to say while we are on the subject, there is something about these attacks that strikes me as most conspicuous.”
“Go on,” Gragos said after a significant pause.
A thin smile pulled at Erastes’ lips. He had Gragos’ attention; now, all that remained was to frame his case. “This is, of course, only speculation, but I for one cannot help questioning the timing of these attacks when viewed against the upcoming election. Tell me, who do you suppose would most benefit at the ballot box if our peoples were to suddenly find themselves at odds?”
“The wights, of course.”
“Indeed. More specifically, Dolan Zobbles.”
There was another pause. “Are you saying you believe Mayor Zobbles to be responsible for orchestrating these attacks?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Erastes said quickly. “Zobbles has neither the stomach nor the savvy required for such ruthlessness. The same cannot be said of some of the more extreme elements among his supporters, however.”
He had baited the hook, as the humans liked to say. But would Gragos take it?
“You raise an interesting theory,” Gragos finally allowed. “But, even if you are correct, I fail to see how that information can be used to stop the attacks.”
“Perhaps not directly. But if I am correct, the wights wa
nt to see us at each other’s throats. If we were to issue a call for unity, show them their efforts are for naught, it may buy us some breathing room while they reevaluate their strategy.”
“A call for unity,” Gragos repeated. He made a noise of consideration, a low hmm-ing sound, as he mulled over the proposal.
“It would also force Zobbles’ hand,” Erastes added. “Either he joins us and we issue a tripartite call—”
“—Or he refuses and appears to endorse the attacks, even if he is not directly responsible for them.”
“Precisely, my good kovar.” Unspoken, of course, was the ultimate goal: to trigger a legitimate election by revealing Zobbles for the feckless fop he was. Equally unspoken was the matter of who would run to succeed him should their efforts bear fruit. All that mattered at that moment was to stop the bleeding; everything else would follow in due course. “So, are we agreed? Shall we join our fates together in an effort to expose and exploit the hypocrisy of the wights once and for all?”
“Yes,” Gragos confirmed without hesitation, “yes we shall.”
Tanglereave Communications Authority /
Silverbreak Keep Office Of Communications
JOINT STATEMENT (BROADCAST TRANSCRIPT)
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Citizens of Meridia,
Regardless of species or creed, we the Undersigned agree that there has come a time when our traditional differences must be set aside in favor of the greater good. Recognizing that today is such a day, the Undersigned have joined together to issue a blanket call for unity; to implore Mayor Zobbles to join our cause, to wit, the categorical rejection of extremism; and for all citizens and inhabitants of our great city to do the same.
At approximately 0400 hours, Hezekiel Stone, Lieutenant Governor of the Gargoyle Gjunta, was assassinated along with a number of his entourage. This attack used phosphorous rounds and has been blamed on the Steelskin Slayers.