by Jean Rabe
The possibilities continued swirling in her head, while she envisioned squeezing Siland’s throat and getting him to cough up the answers. Like why did Cadi have to die? Why did any of the entertainers, for that matter? What the hell did entertainers in Kings bloody Cross have to do with security guards and a biologist that split his time between the aquarium and the zoo?
Ninn replayed a conversation in her her head.
The dwarf had said: “—when them guards was geeked—”
And Draye had answered: “That was weeks ago, an accident, and it was ’cause Eli didn’t know better. He was only supposed to take the one that night.”
Take the one, the biologist. The biologist was “Patient Zero,” the real Victim Number One of the Cross Slayer. So what did the biologist have to do with the entertainers in the Cross? What was the connection? Ninn had to get out of this mess to put all the puzzle pieces in place.
A door banged open, light momentarily streaked across the curved ceiling, confirming she was in the Plexiglas tube at the bottom of the harbor, shapes moving through the dark water. Then the door banged shut, the light gone. The neuro-stun continued winnowing into her system, deeper somehow, relaxing, and she was unwillingly accepting it. The drug was finding that sweet spot. It wasn’t unlike the sensation of popping a slip and following it up with just a swallow of whiskey.
She couldn’t move, might as well enjoy the muzziness, right? Embrace it just a little. Her head felt foggy, and she lost track of where she was. The muzziness felt pretty fragging good.
There was the loud hiss of someone exhaling.
It was the elf. The one in the alley, the one in the basement, the one that had hurt him in the fire. The hated elf. She looked different, no hair, no clothes…no clothes to speak of. With the little dark-skinned man that had been behind Cadigal’s Corner. But she smelled the same. If she’d meant to hide herself with the scant purple sparkles and no hair, it had not worked.
Eli had keen senses. His vision was natural, enhanced medically, not electronically, and no simple disguise like the elf had attempted would fool him. He had other additions, though, to help; thermosense organs implanted in the sides of his thick neck, nothing that messed with his naturally perfect eyes. The organs helped him perceive heat in the dark, whether that came from electronics or bodies, let him find chameleons. Siland had said Eli could see things otherwise invisible. The organs told him that the old man was only flesh, but the elf had tech riding round inside her, electronics in her innards. She wouldn’t be tasty, and the old man would be stringy and tough.
He hated hated hated the elf. She’d hurt him in the tawdry house basement. Might have killed him if he hadn’t slipped into one of his tunnels and let his augmented healing kick in, cells regenerating, muscles repairing while the trauma damper released endorphins and put him in a happy state.
“Eli, kill them, my friend,” Siland had said. “Eli, have fun.”
Twisted fun with the elf, most certainly. “With pleasure, Huddy,” Eli had said, almost adding thank you, but stopping himself. Made his throat itch when he said too many words in a row.
Siland had also mentioned not to make a mess, but Eli would tell him later that he’d forgotten that part. He indeed would make a mess, and revel in it, but he wouldn’t eat them. The harbor was right here; Eli liked fish. He would dine after dumping what was left of the bodies.
“Eli, put them in the harbor when you’re done,” Siland had said.
Thanks, Huddy, Eli had almost said in return.
“Then come home. Don’t stay out too late. And stay to the shadows.”
Eli liked the shadows. But maybe he’d pretend he hadn’t heard the bit about not staying out too late.
His heater was gone, taken by Draye, who’d said he needed it to blame the Cross slayings on some mug they’d grabbed off a boat. Plant the heater on the unfortunate tusker. Eli didn’t need it, as he was perfectly capable of killing with his hands, but he liked the way the heater’s handle warmed against his palm. He liked the sound it made, and more than that he liked the look of terror in his victims’ eyes when they saw him flick open the hot blade.
Eli wanted his heater back.
Like pitch in this tunnel, the elf and the little dark-skinned man would not be able to see their deaths coming, and so Eli would miss the beautiful expression of fear on their faces. Maybe he should turn the lights on. Yeah, he’d do that. Let them see him. Let them be terrified. Eli loved the scent of fear.
Good to have this work to do for Siland, he knew. He was perfect at his job, as he’d slashed everyone on the list Siland had given him. Eli was a good friend. He’d always been a good friend. Best mates.
“The Cross Slayer’s work is done,” Siland had said, explaining that there’d be no more throats that needed cutting, that the lumpers will mark the serial killings case-closed. “But not Eli’s work. Eli’s work will go on. I will have other tasks for you. Like tonight’s work. Eli, kill these two.”
Eli liked being called the Cross Slayer, it made him feel important. It was a more powerful name, spoken with hate and fear and awe all along Darlinghurst. It was on the lips of journos and lumpers and tourists.
Eli would make Siland reconsider. Eli would ask for his heater back and would ask for another list to slash. Eli would ask for the Cross Slayer to come back with a vengeance, for the case to be unclosed. But first, the elf and the little old man, to make Siland happy. Killing the hated elf would make Eli happy, too. Maybe he’d tear apart the thing that looked like a dog.
He palmed the control by the door and the lights came on. He palmed them again and they dimmed. That’s better, all shadowy around the edges, Eli thought, nicely moody. Shadows down under the surface of the Sydney harbor just for him. And the shadow he cast was the longest and most frightening.
He shuffled forward, making as much noise as possible and disappointed that the elf was still on her back and that the old man was in a crumpled heap. The mechanical dog skittered away into the darkness.
“Eli, have fun,” Siland had said.
But there would be no fun unless they put up a little fight.
He growled deep in his throat, the sound like the rumble of an antique furnace kicking on. It was a pleasant sound. He shuffled to the old man, bent, and prodded him with a foot. Eli growled louder, wanting to see the old man tremble.
Eli was careful when he poked the Aborigine. Impossibly strong, stronger than most anything, he had to be careful to keep his power in check. Otherwise the night would pass too quickly, and his quarry would die too fast.
“You die first,” Eli told him, drawing each word out. “S-l-o-w and f-i-r-s-t. The elf last and even s-l-o-w-e-r. My best mate said I could have fun.”
All the words, they made his throat itch. But he saw the glimmer of terror in the old man’s eyes; the words had helped birth that.
Twenty-One
A Slow Spell
Barega wished the man would have kept the lights off. His heart raced, seeing the wide visage looming so close. And “man” was not perhaps accurate. Manlike, with skin as black as oil, oddly shiny in the dim lighting; it looked wet, but was not. Wide, lipless mouth; pointed teeth made of metal; round, dark eyes resembling those of a wild pig. When the man turned his head and sneered, Barega saw the tiniest of ears, practically flat against the sides of this head. Thick neck, bulging arms, long fingers with two joints, not three.
This was the awful man he’d seen in the morgue when he shared a dream with Adoni’s spirit and Ninn. The one who’d killed Adoni and the other entertainers in the Cross.
The Cross Slayer, they’d called him. Eli was the name that the bad police used, a Hebrew name meaning high or ascended. The priest Eli in Biblical times watched over the young prophet Samuel. There was nothing good or high in this Eli. Barega sensed only palpable evil.
The dwarf’s voice had quavered at the mention of Eli.
Good reason to be worried. Barega had passed worried the moment the light came
on and went straight to terrified. Good, perhaps, that he could not yet move, as he could not run fast enough to get away. Better that he rely on his mind. Calm, he told himself. It only worked a little.
“We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through,” the ancient Aboriginal saying went. “Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love…and then we return home.” Just passing through, Barega thought. But let me linger a while longer. There are things I still need to do.
He had spent plenty of decades on this earth, but he wasn’t ready to return home just yet. The galah had sent him to Nininiru Tossinn to awaken her, so that together they could find justice for Adoni. Things I must do. A student to teach.
A shaman, he dealt with spirits of the land…still, he had other resources. So rarely he’d used these, however, that he’d nearly forgotten how. The enchantments hung there at the back of his quivering mind; they were the merest suggestion, things practiced in childhood during walkabout.
“You die first,” Eli repeated. “Slow and first, small man. Slow is best.”
Slow, indeed. Barega drew upon those childhood memories, when he’d first learned he was koradji, and could dance with forces very few in the world knew existed.
Slow.
Slow…
S L O W.
The Aborigine fixated on the air surrounding Eli’s skin and thickened it and gave it weight. So very long ago he’d done this, he wasn’t sure at first that the enchantment had manifested properly.
But when Eli seemed sluggish raising his arm, as if a force pressed down, Barega knew he’d retained the skills. Slow, he thought, S L O W, making the air thicker and heavier still, rendering the Slayer lethargic.
“Slow,” Barega whispered, finding some sensation with his own form returning. Perhaps his use of the old magic was forcing the stunning drug out of his system. If that was the case, he would use more.
“Kill…you…slow,” Eli said, the words spilling out lazily. The monstrous-looking man seemed unaware a shamanic spell had wrapped around him.
Barega managed to turn his head, seeing Ninn stretched out, unmoving save for the slight and steady rise and fall of her chest. Not dead, just held in the stunning drug’s clutches. If she was not so full of wires and metal and ceramic, the magic could flow to her more easily…so easily, as Barega had sensed her potential. But those manmade things had dampened her essence, crippling her to the world’s possibilities. He would use the magic on her behalf, then. Mind stretching out, Barega felt the air above her skin and made it lighter, infusing it with some of his life energy, and then forcing that air deep into her lungs. He was doing the reverse of what he’d done to Eli…slow the monster, hasten the elf.
He nearly dropped the spells when he felt Eli grab his arm and squeeze, felt the bone break and the little splinters stab into his muscles. Adoni had felt this when the beast had grabbed his legs in the alley, squeezed so hard the bones shattered…Adoni’s life shattered.
Barega focused and used the pain to fuel the next enchantment, one of the most potent the galah had taught him: air barrier. He pictured the air solidifying, becoming a shield that he directed to push the monster back. Push! PUSH! Success!
Eli grunted and let go of Barega’s arm, stumbled back and into the side of the Plexiglas tunnel. A hammerhead shark swam close, curious.
The Aborigine pushed up on his good arm and tried unsuccessfully to tamp down the pain. “Dr. Tarr,” he said, thinking a trip to the dwarf’s medical parlor would be necessary…provided Ninn would get up and deal with the beast, who struggled against the invisible barrier. In the ocean beyond, a shark with dark tips on its tail passed by. There were other shapes in the water, more sharks, a few large and colorful blue striped goatfish, a yellow and black Crested Morwong that flitted out of the hammerhead’s path. A rare Chinaman Leatherjacket swam at the edge of his vision, the light in the tunnel stirring the sleeping harbor fishes.
Eli was angry, spittle dripping from his mouth, eyes wide, chest heaving. Barega prayed his conjured wall would hold, because if it dropped the monster would make quick work of both of them.
“Nininiru! Wake up, Nininiru!” Barega formed a fist with his good hand, picturing his fingers as the air around Eli’s neck, squeezing, seeing the beast’s eyes bulge. For a moment Eli made headway and stepped away from the tunnel wall. Push! Eli stumbled back again, surprise and anger flitting across his wide face, mouth opened and metal teeth glimmering. If Adoni had been koradji too, he could have fought the Slayer in the alley, perhaps lived and sang on a bigger stage. And perhaps Barega would have traveled to hear the performance.
Unbidden, Adoni’s incredible voice played in Barega’s mind:
“Brother won’t you find me, find me.
I’m lonely won’t you keep me, keep me?
Keep me close to your heart, ’cause I’m dead and gone.
I caught someone’s eye and he killed me, killed me.”
Barega had a few more tricks, but he suspected that would spread his concentration too thin and weaken the weaves he’d already manifested. Better to work with what he’d already conjured, give them a boost.
“Nininiru!” He forced the air faster and deeper into her lungs and faintly energized the air against her skin. “Nininuru, wake, please!”
Barega saw the muscles in her legs bunch and her hands splay flat against the floor as if she’d been shocked. The elf gasped and pushed up into a sitting position, and the old shaman made the air dance faster.
“Move, Nininiru. Move fast! Hurry.”
The elf made it to her feet just as Eli broke through the air barrier and furiously charged Barega.
“You die fast, old man!” the beast bellowed. “Fast and with pain!”
Twenty-Two
Sleeping With the Fishes
Ninn had been floating, satisfying the sweet spot in her soul with the delicious numbing buzz delivered by the neuro-stun. Should try to fight it, she thought, do something to nudge her trauma damper to jet out some enkephalins and—
In a rush, it felt like she’d stuck a wet finger in an outlet, a jarring sensation stabbing into her and making her teeth hurt. Couldn’t have been the trauma damper; it didn’t work that way. Ninn wondered if she’d had a defibrillator used on her, but that notion was discarded when she heard the Slayer growl.
She recalled where she was…in seriously deep trouble.
Her pulse quickened, her breath came fast, and she bolted up. In a heartbeat she was on her feet, drawing Mordred in the same motion, and firing. Despite the muzziness of the neuro-stun, she moved fast.
“Bam bam bam!” Mordred shouted in her head. “’Bout time you got up, Keebs. Bam!”
In reality, the gun made a harsh spitting noise.
The beast—even more vivid and ugly in person than in the vision she’d shared with Adoni’s spirit—had been lumbering at Barega. Ninn only struck the monster once, the other two shots richoeting off the plexiglass and spooking a big seacarp in pursuit of a shiny longtom.
Just as the beast whirled to pursue her instead, Ninn got a good look at Barega. Cradling a broken, bloody arm, the old man stared at her with wild, wide eyes. He mouthed something, but she didn’t catch it; the beast loomed in front of her on muscular legs as thick as beer kegs, blotting out everything else. She fired again and again, the slugs hitting the Slayer dead center, blood blossoming on a tattered khaki shirt.
Still he rushed at her, forming a fist and swinging. He struck her wrist so hard she heard the bone snap, the agony an icepick rammed in up to its hilt. Ninn howled, a mix of pain and fury. She took several long steps back while the Slayer loomed, gloating, pointed metal teeth glistening with saliva in the dim light. He could have finished her then, but he seemed to be relishing the moment.
“Kill the elf,” the Slayer purred. “With pleasure, kill the elf. Ssssssslow.”
Ninn didn’t understand what happened next, but she saw him stagger away from her, thick arms flailing. He
opened his mouth wide and roared; the sound echoed off the Plexiglas and a school of blue devilfish scattered like a handful of tossed glitter. Some unseen force slammed him against the tunnel wall, and she took advantage of it. Her right hand useless, she scooped Mordred up with her left and aimed, looking over her shoulder at Barega.
“Did you do that? Did you shove him?”
“In a manner.” The old Aborigine struggled to his feet, the tight expression on his wrinkled face showing his pain. He kept his eyes on the beast. “But it won’t hold him long. It didn’t before. Get us out of here, please.”
Ninn wanted to kill the son of a bitch, but a glance at the Slayer showed the bullet holes already closing. He had a serious healing factor, augmented, certainly…definitely better than hers. She stopped herself from firing, fearing either the Plexiglas might break or a richochet could strike Barega or her.
“Fine. I’ll get us out of here, old man.” She rushed past him, holding her broken wrist against her, reaching the door and studying the panel. It should open from this side, a slide down bulkhead of a door that was probably used if the tunnel ruptured. But if there were controls on this side, she couldn’t see them. Ninn dropped Mordred back in her pocket. Benzo clung to her ankles, twitching as if in fear.
“Bam bam bam! Let me get him, Keebs! Let me shoot him while he’s not moving!”
With her good hand, she felt along the seams and pressed in the center of the door, thinking there some sort of contact release. Wala-lang. Not even a peephole she could look out of. Maybe the door at the other end could provide a way out. She swung around on the ball of her foot and dashed back, stopped when an ink-black fist shot out and connected with her rib cage. The Slayer had barreled through whatever Barega had thrown against him.