by Gwynn White
Cato and Dolan traded glances. The mayor seemed to defer, so Cato said simply, “We know you won’t.” A beat passed with no action on her part and he added, “Well, what are you waiting for?”
She was gone that quickly, the stairs shaking with the memory of her hurried steps.
“All right,” Cato said once it was just the three of them. “What’s got you all in a twist?”
Dolan looked completely dumbfounded. “You haven’t heard? Gragos and Erastes announced a call for unity. They’re basically insinuating that my administration organized the attacks or is complicit with them!”
“Fucking hell,” Cato said. “Seriously?”
With a theatrical flourish—politicians, Cato thought—Dolan produced a printed transcript from his jacket’s interior pocket. He tossed it onto Cato’s desk, the folded sheaf flopping open awkwardly. Hank made the trek across the office to read over Cato’s shoulder.
“Boy, they didn’t hold back, did they?” Cato said.
Hank stepped back with a shake of his head, concurring. “Brutal.”
“Exactly. And, while we’re on the subject, it’s not helping with you two going out and staging unsanctioned roadblocks.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Cato said, and for once he wasn’t blowing smoke.
Hank raised his hand, a little too happy to take the heat. “That was me.”
“Seriously?” Cato and Zobbles said in unison.
“Yup. Rolled a cement mixer in front of the southside tunnel to Tanglereave, caught Kaboc and his money convoy by surprise. Had a nice little chat right there on the street.”
“Nice,” Cato said. “Well done.”
“No! Not nice or well done,” the mayor blurted. “This is what I’m talking about.”
“Hey, in Hank’s defense, Kaboc had been dodging his interview all day.”
“Damn it, damn it, damn it. You two were supposed to make this shit go away, not multiply it!”
Cato and Hank exchanged a glance, neither of them willing to jump on that grenade for the other. Not that it mattered. Zobbles was too worked up, anyway.
“Okay! So, that’s it, then! I have to call their bluff. Come on, let’s go.”
“What?” Cato crossed his brows, the weight of the day dropping hard upon his shoulders. “Where? Where are we going?”
“Faust’s Bargain, and right now.” With that, Dolan turned and started hiking up the stairs. He stopped halfway up and looked down at Cato and Hank expectantly. “Well? Come on, already! I sent my driver off with your niece, and you two are my security detail anyway.”
Cato and Smiley took one last look at each other, shrugged, and hiked up the steps after their mayor. Duty called, after all.
13
Cato drove, the roadster bouncing and jogging along Meridia’s roughly fashioned back roads. Word of the impromptu unity rally had already gotten out thanks to the fourth estate, with legitimate journalists and shock jocks alike waiting with bated breath for anything of substance to be said. Whether or not the leaked news was by design or not, Cato couldn’t say. Above his pay grade.
He flicked his eyes up to the rearview, observing their charge in the backseat. Zobbles didn’t seem too worked up over it, at least no more than he had been when he stormed into their office.
Cato reached over and turned off the radio.
They rode in silence for several minutes. Finally, Dolan spoke up. “You two are quieter than usual tonight. Usually, you’re going at each other like cats and dogs. Is there something I should know?”
Hank glanced back over his shoulder, between the front seats, and shook his head. “No, sir. Just trying to make sense of everything that’s gone on the last day or so. There are a lot of moving pieces to this thing.”
“Ah,” Dolan said flatly. After another quiet beat, he added, “That, there are.”
“Speaking of unusual,” Cato said, glancing back into the rearview again. “Don’t you usually roll with more of an entourage than a single driver and no security? What gives?”
“Hank and I had a conversation at the hospital when I went to check on Ann. He advised that I keep a lower profile, so that’s what I’m trying to do. Not draw too much attention to myself.”
Cato nodded, sparing a glance to the passenger seat and the man occupying it. “Sound advice.”
“You sound surprised,” Hank said.
“Not at all. That’s just the type of savvy I was looking for in a partner.”
Dolan eyed the exchange from the backseat, his discomfort becoming increasingly evident. “Yeah, well, savvy or not, if this whole ‘call for unity’ thing doesn’t work out, we’re going to have to seriously revisit the martial law discussion.”
Hank winced visibly beside Cato.
“Martial law discussion?” Cato asked tightly. “You forget to mention something, partner?”
Clearing his throat, Hank said, “I, ah—I guess with everything else going on, it sort of slipped my mind. You know how it goes.”
Oh, how the tables had turned.
“It was at the hospital earlier,” Dolan said. “Hank and Ann talked me out of it at the time, but we’re rapidly running out of options to stop the bleeding.”
“Martial law isn’t going to stop anything but our investigation dead in its tracks.”
Dolan sighed heavily. Wearily. “Look, Cato, I understand that martial law presents some challenges—”
“Let me tell you what’s going to happen when you institute martial law,” Cato said, interrupting. “The hitters will go to ground before the first roadblock or checkpoint ever goes up. They’ll scatter, and whoever is sponsoring them will likely already have arrangements in place to smuggle them out of the city. Meanwhile, Hank and I will be stumbling around with our dicks in our hands, showing our badges every few blocks, telegraphing our every move and intention. Any momentum, any progress we made today, will be erased. You won’t figure out who’s behind the attacks, you’ll lose the election, we’ll lose our jobs, then the moment the next guy lifts the roadblocks and curfews—boom!—it will start up all over again, and the city and everyone in it will be right back to square one. No, screw that—square zero.”
Silence reigned in the roadster as Cato finished his soliloquy. The only other sound was the hum of the tires against the road and the rumble of the roadster itself as it rolled along unabated.
Finally, Dolan spoke. “I appreciate your position, Cato. That, and your passion. But, believe it or not, I’m not so vain that I can accept the deaths of hundreds of my fellow citizens as the price of my office. At the moment, I’m open to any solution that stops the attacks and gives this city room to breathe. If, in my capacity as mayor, I decide martial law is that solution, I will not hesitate to institute it. Your input is valued, but let’s not forget who’s driving whom here.”
Cato spoke through gritted teeth as he said, “Point taken, Mr. Mayor.”
Dolan sat back in his seat, apparently satisfied with the conversation’s resolution.
Cato, on the other hand, was anything but. Gripping the steering wheel hard, he reminded himself that nothing had been decided. He and Hank still had time. That, and there was always the possibility that the call for unity might actually slow the bloodshed, as Dolan had said. Hell, someone might even be inspired to come forward with a vital tip or confession. It was highly unlikely, but stranger things had happened in Meridia.
Whatever the case, they wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. Cato approached the PWD cordon outside of Faust’s Bargain and parked the roadster where the officer directing traffic indicated. Looking over his shoulder into the backseat, Cato said, “We’re here, sir.”
The wide, spacious lawn at the center of Faust’s Bargain wasn’t quite packed to capacity, but the turnout was surprising, nonetheless, given the hour.
The space had been named for Meridia’s first and only posthumous mayor, General Adrina Faust. She had been all of 36 years old at the time of her martyrdom,
her rank the product of the constant up-jumping resulting from the deaths of her superiors, and yet she had marched alone into the marsh that had once stood upon this very spot, armed with nothing more than her bare hands, then returned to display the bite-bonds of unity between the three newly dominant species.
Adrina Faust had died a brutal, ravaging death that lasted several days—so the legend went, anyway—but the armistice was ratified as a result of her sacrifice, and so the marsh was leveled and filled in, and the city of Meridia built atop it. Countless generations had known peace and prosperity thanks to Adrina Faust’s sacrifice, and she had been honored as such. Fitting, then, that it should come full circle, the three dominant species coming together once again to beg their various constituents not to blow the ever-loving shit out of each other.
And yet, here they were, a single day’s worth of events ready to shred the city and its long history to fleshy, gory ribbons. This was Dolan’s moment, Cato knew. The question was if he was up to it? Dolan had had precious little time to prepare, had no notes, and yet he was supposed to somehow soothe an entire city that was on the verge of eating itself alive. It was an unenviable task, to be sure.
“Hey,” Cato said. “Check one?”
“Go for one.”
With Dolan’s attention centered, Cato reared back and struck him across the cheek.
“Whoa!” Hank bellowed.
Dolan held up a hand, staying Hank and nodding as he staggered back. “Thanks,” he said to Cato, rubbing at his cheek. “I needed that. Mind if I get one in on you?”
“Not at all.” Cato lifted his chin invitingly. “Make it two, if need be. Whatever gets you right.”
Dolan nodded, then strode in with a quick boxer’s stance. “Yeah, thanks.” Cato didn’t so much as move. Quickly, Dolan snapped Cato’s head back with a soft jab and a hard right.
“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Hank wondered.
Cato was already shaking it off, laughing slightly.
“It’s all good, Hank,” Zobbles said. “Don’t worry.”
“Ooookay…”
Working his jaw a bit and tilting his head from side to side, Zobbles smiled. “I’m ready.”
“Sorry,” Cato said to Hank as Zobbles took the stage. “We used to do that before battle, back in the day.”
“What in the world for?”
“Hell if I know. We were a bunch of stupid kids afraid of dying young.”
“Fair enough, I guess.”
“Let’s just keep focused. Our new friends should be arriving any minute.”
The words had barely tripped off Cato’s tongue before the vampire and gargoyle delegations made themselves known. A rapid-fire exchange of handshakes and introductions ensued, though Cato couldn’t have cared less about the names of his vampire and gargoyle counterparts, so long as no one tried to turn them.
The leaders quickly separated themselves from their security details, huddling off to the side as they discussed in hushed tones how they were to proceed. Like Zobbles, Gragos Cairn and Erastes Ensanguine had arrived with a minimum of security, preferring the ease of movement and lack of attention that came from rolling with a low profile. That, and the way the event had come together seemed to suggest they were safe by proxy. This wasn’t a long-scheduled speech or a predictable campaign stop; the fact that it had been arranged so quickly, almost spontaneously, had made it that much more difficult to prepare an attack against.
Still, Cato didn’t like it. He and Hank had been chasing down the major players behind the scenes for the last 24 hours, and now, suddenly, here they all were, together. Almost like pieces on a board, being moved about by some external, unseen force. Maybe that last part was a little farfetched, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were playing into a grander design than they realized.
Or maybe he was just being paranoid. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last; and it was like the old saying went: It’s not paranoia if someone’s actually out to get you.
The various security details consulted briefly, then fanned out, as much to cover more ground as to put some distance between themselves. They all knew their jobs, and no good would come from treading on each other’s toes.
Cato edged along the perimeter and studied the faces of those behind it. He had a fleeting hope that he might recognize a face in the crowd from one of the attacks this morning, but no one tripped any alarm bells.
Something, though…
Something kept nagging at him.
“What’s on your mind, partner?”
Cato lifted a brow, glancing over to Hank. “Not sure, honestly. Something about this just feels… I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s only a matter of time until they get started…” Hank said. He went on talking, but Cato had tuned him out. Then he said, “We should probably—hey, you still with me?”
“Crius said the same thing. Right near the end of our interview.”
“Said what?”
“That it’s only a matter of time. First, he asked when he was getting out, though.”
“Okay…”
“Thing is, Nissa Aziani told Gragos that Crius would be sidelined until Ann was on her feet again. No chance for bail.”
“Ouch. Bet that didn’t go over well.”
“Actually, Gragos didn’t object. But Crius, though—there was something about his reaction.” Cato paused, replaying the exchange in his mind’s eye. “I played it off like I didn’t know, that he should ask PWD, and he just shrugged it off. Like he didn’t really care if he got out at all.”
Hank pursed his lips and looked over at the vamp security detail. “Kaboc said something interesting, too, now that you mention it.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“Right before I lifted the roadblock we sprang on him, he said something like, ‘We will take your world yet. We’ve learned how to play your games.’”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”
Cato shook his head, eyes narrowed as he tried to read between the lines. “Why would Crius be comfortable staying in prison?”
They were still considering the possible answers when the three leaders began to make their way toward the hastily erected array of microphones and antennae placed in front of Adrina Faust’s statue.
“Here we go,” Hank said. “Time to pull it in.”
Gragos Cairn stood within the protective cocoon of his security detail as the speaking order was finalized. His people had regarded the mayor’s invitation to join him as he addressed the citizens of Meridia from Faust’s Bargain with suspicion, to be sure. They would have precious little time to vet the situation or the gathered crowd, they had warned him, let alone secure the perimeter to their satisfaction. They could not, in short, guarantee their kovar’s safety. But what choice did he have? His people had perished by the dozens this day, and there was nothing to suggest the attacks had stopped. At best, he could hope only for a pause long enough to allow PWD and the mayor’s so-called spectors to bring the perpetrators to justice. If not, he was certain it was only a matter of time until another attack targeted his people’s already diminished numbers.
Among the three ruling species in Meridia, the gargoyles were the minority. There were any number of reasons for this, though chief among them was that a great many had perished during the Nothnocti Wars. While his kind were fierce warriors, the vampires had come in great waves, crashing upon their lines one after another. And their poison—how it sapped the will and slowed the mind. Even the most hardened and determined of their warriors had little hope of standing against a prolonged assault once that poison had entered their veins. Those who lived were often paralyzed by the toxins; typically, they begged for death, and even those who could no longer speak found a way to communicate their desire for release.
Another reason for the disparity in their numbers was strictly biological in nature. His kind simply did not feel the same imperative or urgency to reproduce that vampire
s and humans did. Rarely did gargoyles engage in copulation outside of the breeding seasons, believing that within those short windows lay the most ideal conditions to produce strong, healthy offspring. Indeed, the very idea of spontaneous, nonstop, year-round coupling was distasteful to many within their community, evidence that wights and vampires alike were incapable of controlling their basest urges. His people’s offended sensibilities notwithstanding, there could be no debate that their mating practices were holding back the growth of their community.
As for the budding triumvirate at work, Gragos was of mixed emotions. While there was no love lost between him and Erastes Ensanguine, he could detect no ulterior motive lurking beneath the strigoi lord’s offer to temporarily join together in service of their mutual interests. The vampires were duplicitous, but there was a certain unabashed honesty to their duplicity that somehow made it more tolerable.
Then there were the wights, whose duplicity was of an entirely different sort; who, unable to defeat the gargoyles with what their Maker had provided them, turned to weapons of an unholy provenance. Phosphorus rounds were a particularly vile species of projectile, the jacketed, hollow-point rounds among the few powerful enough to pierce gargoyle skin. Worse, the phosphorus ignited once it was inside the body, burning tissue, muscles, and organs alike with no distinction. Even a poorly placed round was often enough to incapacitate; a dozen or more were capable of immolating his kind from the inside out.
Yet even the phosphorous rounds paled in comparison to the amount of damage that could be wrought by one solar flare. He had seen as much himself, had held his only daughter’s broken, mineralized face in his own hands. The flare’s light had been so bright at its epicenter that it had not only petrified its victims, but scoured them smooth. Many had been rendered unidentifiable through conventional means. Sinnestra had taken the worst of the blast, her once lovely face polished featureless. He hoped to piece her back together, to construct some sort of shrine or monument around the statue she had been made into, but it remained to be seen whether enough of her remains had been recovered.