by Carl Sargent
NOWHERE TO HIDE
Serrin Shamander, rootless mage and part-time shadowrunner, is on the run. First he flees New York, hoping to find refuge in Europe. But somebody is determined to corner him—he doesn’t know who or why. On therun with Serrin is a brilliant decker named Michael and a burned-out troll samurai named Tom. Behind them is Kristen, a street kid from Capetown with a list of names.. .or victims, if you will. Now Serrin and his friends are driven by mounting panic. Everywhere they go they (eel evil eyes, elven eyes, watching them. Gradually they learn of their enemy’s plan to wipe humanity from the face of the earth, and they are desperate to confront him. Their enemy, however, is in no such hurry. Why should he be? Relentless, powerful, demonic, hasn’t he already been waiting for more than three hundred years... ?
BELLOWING LIKE A MINOTAUR
... smashing everything around him with inhuman strength, Luther rampaged through the corridors of the monastery. He was wholly out of control, blood raging like fire. Seeing his victim bound and waiting, he threw himself bodily at the young elf, jaws clamping like a vice on the throat. Mouth filling with salty blood, Luther sucked greedily at the warmth of it running down over his chin. The young elf’s mortal fear and panic excited him, fed him as surely as the blood did; he loved the leeching away of a living soul, drew power from it. Luther struggled to hold back the ravenous beast within, savoring every instant of exultation the dying gave him. Then the hunger burst like a crumbling dam and he tore the elf’s throat apart, hands clutching either side of the lolling head. He fastened himself to the neck, the blood spurting over his hands and chest. The crimson flood held the last agonies of the dying mage, life-blood filled with death-fear, the delight of it overwhelming. Luther’s body spasmed like a huge, pallid leech rippling as it gorged itself.
SHADOWRUN : 14
NOSFERATU
Carl Sargent & Marc Gascoigne
1
Why the frag is Knight Errant swarming all over the place? Serrin wondered, rubbing his sleepy eyes and squinting into the June sunlight. Uniformed security had sprouted up on the grass around the campus library like mold on a rotting peach. Not breaking stride, the elf headed straight for the group blocking his path to the building’s entrance.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the security goon said indifferently. “No one is admitted to this area today.”
“I’ve got all my passes,” Serrin offered, halfway toward reaching into a jacket pocket for his plastic. His hand froze in mid-air as one look on the goons’ faces told him not to put his hand anywhere near any of his pockets.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the man repeated in a bored tone of voice. “Block C is closed today. Haven’t you heard?”
“Haven’t I heard what?” the elf said irritably.
“The Beloff Research Laboratory is being inaugurated at two o’clock this afternoon. By Andrew T. Small in person.” The man’s voice betrayed just the merest hint of contempt at mention of New York’s mayor.
“Great,” Serrin muttered, turning on his heel. He wandered off to the nearest canteen, bought a garishly headlined Times from the vending machine, and sat down to read it over a cup of soykaf and a Danish. No one read a cheap tabloid like this for news in 2055, but even its wild sensationalism couldn’t distract the elf from his irritation. The grimoires he needed to consult were under the most highly restricted access, and this was the only place in the world that had them. The most he’d been able to get was permission for a week’s access to the magical collection here at Columbia, and now he was going to lose a whole day of it.
His gray eyes meandered over the top of the newspaper to the girl who’d parked herself down across from him. She had the fresh-faced look of the typical university student, but Serrin wondered about the brief flash of something hard in the brown eyes gazing at him from beneath her dark curls. Her datajack was silvered and her nails were polished to match, but the metallic lip gloss was a little too flash for his liking. Yet he could also see that on her it looked good.
“You a mage?” she asked abruptly. He nodded. “One of the parapsych profs?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, just doing some research.” He reached into a pocket for his cigarettes, offered her one.
“You can't smoke in here,” she said, with a little laugh. “We social outcasts have to take it outside.” She picked up her cup and headed for the door. Stealing a brief look at her long, smooth legs, Serrin got up and went limping after her.
“What’re you working on?” she asked as he sat down beside her on the grass. She’d already lit up, the smoke from her menthol cigarette rising lazily into the already warm morning air.
“Um, magical defense,” he said, adding his own plume of smoke to the humid, heavy air. Her eyes narrowed a little and he regretted having given himself away so readily. Not that anyone couldn’t have figured out what he was after simply by scoping out the grimoires he'd been consulting in the library.
“Against who?” she asked, leaning back on one arm as she watched his face.
Serrin shrugged. “No one ... Or at least not that I know of. Let’s just say I’m a little bit paranoid.”
“Then New York’s just the place for you. But you’re not a native, are you?” She cocked her head and studied him for a moment. “I’d say your accent is West Coast, somewhere north maybe? Seattle?”
Smart girl, he thought, enjoying himself thoroughly. Despite the heat, it was a beautiful summer morning and she was almost as lovely. The mage barely noticed the passage of time as she gradually drew him out like a fisherman reeling in a difficult catch. The security goons twitched from time to time, perhaps wondering why the elf and the young woman lingered so long doing nothing while the sun rose high in the sky toward noon and then beyond.
The mayor’s official cortege arrived on schedule, even a bit early at five minutes to two. By then, the stars of Columbia’s parapsychology department had begun to assemble in front of the new research building on a dais festooned with ribbons of red and silver. The stairs leading up to the new building gleamed as if they’d been scrubbed twenty times during the night.
Serrin and the girl wandered across toward the gathering, which apparently hadn’t attracted much of a crowd. Despite the fact that the mayor of the city was making an appearance, the Rotten Apple’s media snoops obviously had more exciting stories to cover.
“What’s he doing here?” Serrin wondered aloud. “I mean, the mayor can’t be too worried about the parapsychology vote.”
She grinned. “I’ve heard that some of the money to construct these new buildings came from foreign sources—including one that’s megatight with a vote he does need.”
That caught Serrin’s interest, and he was just about to ask what she meant when Mayor Small, surrounded by a phalanx of grim-faced bodyguards, emerged from the safety of his Phaeton and advanced toward the applauding academics.
Long afterward, the mage still could not pinpoint what had alerted him. It wasn’t his spell lock to detect enemies, which wouldn’t have homed in on an assassin whose target was somebody else. Nor was help from any other magic, for Serrin had no spells going. Trying to run spells in the middle of a place crawling with Knight Errants wouldn’t have gotten him more than an abrupt but efficient escort straight off the campus.
No, the way it happened was like a smooth tracking shot in slo-mo. The hazy-edged tan whirl of an Arab face, a gleam of metal, a masked aura, and a rush of adrenaline. The Knight Errant goons must have caught Serrin just as he was casting his spell for a magical barrier, because all at once several of them were pointing their Predators straight at him. It was at that moment other magical energies swam into focus along with his own.
The bullet never did hit Mayor Andrew T. Small, but
deflected away as Serrin’s spell defeated its course, sending it shattering into a high window of the new research building. The sound of breaking glass came slowly, as if from a long way off. Small hit the ground while three of his bodyguards piled on top of him like three linebackers sacking a rookie quarterback. The goons staring at Serrin seemed unable to focus, confusion written all over their faces. The Knight Errant mage who’d stopped them from filling the elf with lead barked an order, and they slowly let their raised weapons fall.
Serrin watched the terrifying, unstoppable line of their aim drop from his own body, then, in a sudden burst, everything resumed normal speed in a great rush and roar of noise. The lone gunman had been overpowered by street samurai among the crowd. A squad of Knight Errant’s finest leapt for him, eager to save what little face they could.
Serrin was first bundled to the ground, then hauled to his feet again and forced into a tinted-window limo. A coat was clumsily flung over his head as the car sped away. The elf huddled in his seat, barely breathing, barely moving. All he could do was hope and pray that his reflexes hadn’t gone and got him into deep and serious drek.
* * *
“I apologize for any rough treatment, Mr. Shamandar,” the man in the sharp suit told Serrin. “It’s just that we were trying to optimize your debriefing. You’ll appreciate the need for a full security-implication assessment of events.”
Yeah, sure, Serrin thought blearily. I stop the mayor of New York from getting smoked and all I get for my trouble is eighteen hours of nonstop interrogation. I don’t even know where I am. He crossed his arms and gave the nameless suit his best “Well, what now?” look.
“I am authorized to make you a discretionary payment on behalf of the mayoral office as a reward for your public-spirited actions,” the suit said as he produced a credstick with the imprint of City Hall. As the man handed it over to Serrin, he gave the elf one of his oiliest smiles.
Serrin was slightly mollified. Just how much more mollified he was prepared to get depended on the size of the reward. And, well, ten thousand nuyen ought to buy a fair to middling degree of mollification.
“We do not believe there’s any risk to you of reprisal,” the suit continued after Serrin had examined the stick. “The department is confident that we’re dealing with a lone assassin.”
Serrin almost laughed. With all the powerful magic that had obviously been masking the gunman, he’d been acting alone about as much as had William Springer, the man who’d assassinated President Garrety and never been caught. But that was apparently what the mayor’s office—and Knight Errant—wanted him to believe, so he pretended to buy it.
“I’m just glad to have been of help,” Serrin said blandly. Pocketing the credstick, he turned to leave the blindingly lit, windowless interrogation room. Flanking him now on either side were two Knight Errant trolls, each one holding one of his arms as they marched him to the limo parked in front of the security installation. Beside it, a dark-haired girl was arguing with a few more Knight Errants who were about to manhandle her off the premises. It was the same girl he’d met the day before, sun gleaming off the silver jacks in her temples even at this hour of the morning. Jerking his arms free of his burly escorts, the elf rushed forward to intervene.
“Hey, it’s chilll” he said as one of the Errants poked her in the ribs with a nasty-looking Predator. “I mean, we were just leaving anyway.”
“Let’s go,” she said simply and opened the door of her Jackrabbit. Something told him just to get in and let himself be driven away. Her smaller car simply looked more human, more inviting, than the corporate limo. It was only later that Serrin realized how little a night without sleep had done for his instincts.
2
“The vidcasts didn’t get your face,” she said when they were settled into her apartment somewhere in suburban New Jersey. “I think you got lucky, Serrin Shamandar. I doubt the Damascus League got enough of an ID to come after you—even if they wanted to, which isn’t my guess they don’t.”
“Damascus League?” What in slot did they have to do with this?
“That’s the word on the street. Maybe Small’s been getting too chummy with the Jewish vote lately. Standard hazard for a mayor of New York.”
Serrin tried to remember what had happened in those split seconds in front of the beribboned dais. Through the blur of images, he realized he’d forgotten something else.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I can’t even remember your name. They didn’t let me sleep and I guess my brain’s temporarily on hold,” he apologized.
“Julia. Julia Richards,” she smiled, seeming not at all offended.
“Uh, why did you come to pick me up? I mean, what’s it to you?”
“You’re very welcome,” she said tartly, then turned and flounced away into the little cubbyhole of a kitchen, from which the pungent aroma of coffee soon announced that it wasn’t soy, but the real thing. Still feeling churlish, Serrin got up to follow, grimacing at the familiar pain stabbing all the way down his damaged leg. Turning, she saw the look and her irritation changed immediately to concern.
“Forgive me,” he said. “My manners seem to have gotten as rusty as my brain. I appreciate your turning up. But you can’t blame me for wondering why.”
She filled two cups and set them a tray, which he gallantly took from her. Accompanying the coffee were bagels, and Serrin thought the smoked salmon and cream cheese slathered over them might be as real as the coffee.
“Well, it’s not that often that I get to meet the man who saves the mayor of New York from being assassinated,” she said teasingly. “If that didn’t make me interested in you, I don't know what would. I also wondered what kind of person could see something Knight Errant couldn’t. I figured you must be a real wiz mage. Someone special.” Her tongue flicked across her perfect lips. “That good enough for you?”
Serrin couldn’t reply for a large mouthful of chewy bagel. Swallowing it with a hefty gulp he managed to mumble something about not being special at all.
“Maybe . .. maybe not,” she said lightly. “Where are you staying?”
“The Grand Hudson,” he told her. Julia’s eyes widened a little at the mention of such an expensive hotel.
“Why not lay low here for a few days? Just in case. Going back to Columbia might not be a good idea just now. I could get what you need from the library. I’ve got all the necessary passes and I know some of the librarians.”
Sensation ran down his spine, part-thrill, part-fearful distrust. Everything had been happening so fast, so out of the blue. He was too exhausted to stop and think. Julia Richards was young and pretty and he was probably safer here in the wilds of suburbia than back in Manhattan. Anyway, what did he have to lose? Not much, he knew. Doing things because there wasn’t much to lose had been Serrin’s modus vivendi for some time now. It made decisions so much easier. True, he was a shadowrunner, with the same well-honed instincts for danger and survival as any other of his kind. But even a veteran runner and elven mage could make mistakes when suffering the effects of extreme fatigue.
“Uh, you sure?” She nodded; no pressure. “Well, uh, that would be great,” Serrin said. Then quickly added, “I’ve only got a few more days in New York.” He was trying to let her know he wouldn’t become a burden, but also wanted to make sure she understood he didn’t stay anywhere too long. He tried his best to stifle a yawn, and failed wretchedly.
“What you need now is some rest,” Julia said, giving him another of those smiles. “The spare room’s that way and to your left,” she told him.
Serrin bid her good night, even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning, then made his way toward the back bedroom, limping even more than usual. The little room was dark and deliciously cool, furnished simply with a bed, a bedstand, and a chair. Not even bothering to remove his clothes or his boots, Serrin sank gratefully onto the bed, punching the pillow up under his head just the way he liked it. He fell asleep almost ins
tantly, and didn’t wake until five that afternoon—and only then because Julia shook him gently awake to the sight of more freshly brewed coffee on the bedside table. He was halfway through his first cup when she slipped into the bed beside him. Real coffee or not, the other half-cup was instantly forgotten.
* * *
Serrin stayed for three days. By day Julia was away from the apartment, returning later with the books he wanted, having somehow won permission to take them out overnight. At night they drove back into town, wandering mostly around the East Riverside neighborhood, where she took him to the Metropolitan Opera and to restaurants where they dined well and expensively. She always paid her half of the tab, a fact that should have made Serrin wonder, but didn’t.
Meanwhile they talked as endlessly as on that first day in the morning sun outside the library. In the course of their conversations Julia confided that she dabbled in writing and was an aspiring actress. From what she described, he made her as one of those eternal hopefuls hanging round the fringes of the arts, doomed to disappointment like most of the rest.
The only thing that seemed other than wholly harmless about Julia Richards was her collection of books on the occult. Possessions, hauntings, apparitions, all the standard themes plus a good few more. She’d taken some courses in parapsych, and showed him the working version of a ghost tale she was writing. Surprised to find it so readable and well done, Serrin thought the girl had an old-fashioned knack for creating scenes with the disturbing hint of unseen, unknown, unknowable presences lurking just on the edge of the reader’s perception.
“This interest in ghosts . . . You intending to hunt them professionally?” he asked, more jesting than serious.
“Oh, just an old hobby,” she said, waving her hand to show how minor was its importance, and left it at that.
But from that time on Serrin felt that everything changed. It wasn’t anything in particular that was different. There were no scenes, no major misunderstandings, just a shift in mood, in tone. Even when they made love, he knew her heart wasn’t in it. Though he tried to paper over the subtle rift between them with friendly conversation, the mage grew uneasy.