by John Conroe
The gas explosion was concentrated under the big vehicle, and it threw it into the air like a toy, flipping it over so that it would come down on our Ford. The driver was still staring at me, likely the last thing he’d ever see, as the door of his compartment would hit the ground first. The guys were clear but moving like molasses. The explosion had been centered under the truck, doing exactly what it had been designed to do.
Grim jumped—at the flying truck. One hand grabbed the roof of the driver’s side, the other gripped the open window frame. Feet touched down on the left fender, arms twitched, and the door ripped open. Right index finger formed a hook, mono-edge lining the inside. Seatbelts parting like tissue, driver gripped by belt. Grim flipped us away, a two-hundred-thirty-pound cargo hanging from a belt. We hit the roof of the Ford SUV, denting it, the multi-ton hauler inverting itself overhead. Jumped again, cleared the sidewalk and landed, Clinging to the side of the café, driver dangling from his belt.
The garbage truck came down directly on top of our Ford, crushing it flat and spraying foul-smelling rubbish in every direction.
Smoke and dust rolled out from the blast zone as red and orange flames flared up from the broken street. The cloud rolled across the café, its occupants and workers, and up the side of the building, leaving us all covered in gray powder. Grim walked us down the wall, setting the garbage driver down on his feet, where he promptly collapsed.
Deckert was there in an instant, eyes scanning me for damage. I pointed at the driver and without missing a beat, he directed his extra security guy to check the shaken man over.
The café crowd stood stunned, most still holding camera phones out. Now they came back to life, some moving toward us while a few of the more civic-minded checked on the drivers of the cars in front and in back of ours. A Chevy Terrain that had been directly behind us had a flattened engine compartment, but the way the truck had fallen on it had shoved the SUV backward like a toy, which in turned kept the driver from getting pasted.
“God’s Hammer,” someone loudly whispered.
“He did it! He got that man out!” another voice yelled.
The damned phones were coming back up. Deckert spun around to face the crowd.
“This was an attack aimed at Mr. Gordon. He needs to leave the area or there could be another attempt,” he told the crowd in a voice that would make a drill instructor proud.
“Kill the Hammer? No way! Not in this city,” a man said, face flickering from shock to anger in a New York second.
“If you will open a path, Mr. Gordon will get clear as fast as he can. That will lead any danger away from you all and frankly, it’ll be best for him as well,” Deckert said, making a Moses parting the sea motion with both hands. Damned if they didn’t listen to him. His head swiveled my way. “Get the fuck outta here—sir!” he growled. “Full speed.”
I wanted to stay, but Grim agreed with Deckert and I was gone, moving fast enough to pull a big funnel of smoke after me. Across the street and up the side of a building till I could follow the rooftops and head for the Tower, which rose like a pinnacle above my elevated footpath. Behind me, I could hear sirens winding up, a sound I’ve heard far too many times in my short life, while I ran away.
Chapter 30 - Declan
I was dying. No question about it. A slow, painful death by toilet. Barely making it to my apartment after meeting with Chris and Tanya, I hadn’t left the bathroom since. Apparently, my internals desired to go external, as it seemed everything inside me was headed out… violently.
My phone buzzed on the sink counter next to me. It was Stacia, texting me to let me know Chris had been attacked again. She mentioned an explosion, but that he was okay. I typed back a quick Okay and went back to my misery.
Time went by. My world was just two rooms. My bedroom and the bathroom. I alternated from lying on my bed to racing for the toilet. Vaguely, I heard my phone buzzing with other texts, but I honestly was too self-miserable to look at it. Sorrow was silent, but I could sense him/it lurking on the edge of my consciousness, concerned yet unable to offer any help beyond the half-dozen recipes for digestive potions and teas. Most used common herbs, stuff I had in my Aunt-Ashling-created health kit, but I couldn’t find the energy to brew up any peppermint, yellowroot, mullein, and white willow bark tinctures. Instead, I lay stomach down, just breathing as I awaited the next attack. Sometimes, I sipped some water from the bottle I managed to drag out of the mini-fridge.
The phone buzzed some more and then a knock came at my door.
“Declan? It’s Stacia. You alive in there?”
“Yes, just barely. What’s up?” I croaked out, alarmed by her presence.
“Can I come in?”
“No! Ah, I mean, I’m sick with something. A bug or whatever. I don’t want you to get it.”
“Declan, I’m a werewolf. We don’t get sick, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, it’s not so nice in here,” I said.
“That’s the nature of being sick. Let me in, please?” she asked.
“No, Stacia. Just let me be. I’ll be alright,” I said, then another cramp hit me and I was off the bed and stumbling for the bathroom.
“So be it. I’m calling Dr. Singh,” she said, but I was too involved to answer. Not that she couldn’t hear my misery despite the two doors and multiple walls between us.
A bit later, another knock came. “Declan, it’s Dr. Singh. Would you let me in?”
I thought about denying him but realized the next step would bring Chris or Tanya to just rip the door off the wall. Then a whole flood of perfect people, mostly ultra-attractive women, would be front and center to my imperfect human condition and all its attendant odors and unpleasantness.
I lurched through the apartment and opened the door, checking to make sure Stacia wasn’t with him. It was just the doctor.
He stepped through briskly, shutting the door behind him. “Just me,” he said. “Several of your associates wanted to come check on you, but I explained that most young men would prefer not to have unrelated females see them at such a disadvantage.”
“Thanks Doctor. It doesn’t help that they’re all impervious to illness,” I said.
“Oh that’s not true at all. Maybe not bacteria and viruses, but there are several maladies that can befall Darkkin and were alike,” he said, immediately grasping my head between cool hands and looking into my eyes, ears, nose, and throat.
He leaned close and sniffed me twice, then leaned back, frowning and nodding to himself.
“For instance, while neither Stacia or Lydia would be impacted in the slightest by the Clostridium perfringens that’s been wreaking havoc on your system, silver poisoning is a very real threat. Also, Stacia is highly allergic to wolfsbane and slightly less so to mountain ash,” he said, walking over to the kitchen area and pulling a mug from the stack near my Keurig machine.
“Mountain ash? Rowan? Stacia is allergic to Rowan?” I asked, floored that the blonde werewolf was allergic to my favorite tree. Hell, the wooden herb box in my bedroom was Rowan.
“Yes, ironic, isn’t it? You, as a practitioner of the Craft, use as a staple of your work a substance that could seriously harm your young lady friend,” he said, filling the mug with water and placing it into the microwave.
“So you already know what’s wrong with me? Closterdum perfumage or something?” I asked.
“Clostridium perfringens. Sometimes known as the buffet germ. Common cause of food poisoning and while it’s very nasty, it usually runs its course in twenty-four hours or so. I’d know its scent anywhere. But we must keep you hydrated, so I’m making you a tea. The warm fluid will help soothe your system. There are some important electrolytes in it as well as a few herbs to slow the diarrhea.”
“You figured all that out from just sniffing me?” I asked.
“Amazing what vampiric senses can lend to the medical field. Now, tell me what and where have you eaten today?” he asked.
“Well, Stacia and I had dinner at a
n Indian place that’s run by friends of hers last night. Today, I just had the tacos at lunch upstairs,” I said.
He frowned. “I doubt Gita’s would serve any bad food, but neither can I believe Remy would allow the slightest hint of bacteria to enter his domain. He can sniff it out just as I can. This is disturbing,” he said, taking the mug of water out when the microwave dinged. He poured a packet of herbs into the water, then added a commercial-looking packet of powder and mixed it all up.
“What’s in it?” I asked as I sipped the finished product.
“Chamomile, willow, comfrey, and a packet of lemon Gatoraid.”
“Nice. Mixing old school with new,” I said.
“The beauty of an extended life is being able to see all the utility in things from the past and new things here in the now,” he said, waving me toward the couch.
“Did anyone else get sick?” I asked.
He frowned. “No, which is odd. But then, as I said, it would be highly unlikely that Remy would allow any food to be contaminated. He’s very fierce about that. Militant, you could say.”
“Then it must have been Gita’s” I said.
“Both Gita and her husband can smell Clostridium perfringens or any other food-poisoning-related pathogens. I find it hard to believe it would get past them.”
“Well, maybe they didn’t pay attention. Most of their clients are werewolves,” I said.
“But not all of them, young warlock. And Gita is also very fierce about preserving her clients’ health. Maybe you ate something in between and forgot?” he suggested.
“No Doc, I was really full from dinner, came home, and went to bed. Then when I got up today, it was lunchtime, so I went to the dining room and they had a Mexican buffet going so I helped myself to, ah, let’s see… four tacos. Other interns were there, too. You could check on that Simon dude and his group. They were all eating tacos, too.”
He shook his head. “No, they’re all fine. Stacia said you were facing a digestive issue and as I left the lobby, I could see that very same fellow laughing with his friends.”
“Oh. Well, it’s a mystery, then,” I said.
He packed up his stuff and turned to me. “Drink the rest of your tea and then try to rest. Keep drinking water. Staying hydrated is crucial. This will pass naturally and I feel confidant in saying that I think you’ve got the worst behind you, so to speak,” he smiled. “No pun intended. Now, I must be going. A certain young werewolf lady of our mutual acquaintance will be waiting impatiently for your prognosis. I can share that with her, can I not?” he asked, looking worried like I might say no.
“Yeah, sure. But she’s got better things to do than worry about me,” I said.
He turned and fixed me with a stare. “I believe she has done little else since you became ill. It may seem odd to you, given her beauty and personality, but she has very few friends. I suspect that her very appearance and people’s reactions to it have colored her attitudes toward relationships. She is very discriminating in where she bestows her loyalty. You, young man, have been granted a large measure of it. In fact, I suspect you should be prepared for a visit after I leave. While she respects my professional skills, she will likely want to make personally certain that you are on the mend.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said with a smile. “Now, I’m off.”
“Thanks Dr. Singh, very much,” I said.
“My pleasure, Declan, my pleasure,” he said, then pointed at the mug in my hand and made sipping motions. With that, he turned and left the suite. I sipped my tea and then realized what his words meant. Jumping up… well, let’s be honest… staggering up is more like it. Anyway, I tottered around, straightening up and spraying air freshener around the place. I had only just collapsed back on the couch when a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” I said.
Stacia opened the door instantly, immediately entering and fixing me with a rather serious stare. She looked me up and down, put a warm hand on my forehead, and finally nodded.
“So, you’re gonna live?” she asked, sitting down next to me.
“That’s the word from the expert. Food poisoning. From somewhere. Starting to feel a little better. Doc Singh’s tea is pretty good, too.”
She frowned, looking down at her hand where it traced a pattern on her knee. “Declan, you didn’t call me when you got sick, or even mention it by text,” she said, lifting her green eyes to meet mine.
I shrugged. “I felt like crap,” I said, wincing at the unintended pun. “I was too tired and miserable to see anyone.”
“Okay, I can see that. Nobody likes to be sick in front of others, but Declan, it’s okay to be less than optimum in front of friends, you know? And we’re friends, right?” she asked.
My head nodded itself vigorously, even as part of me wanted to say but I don’t want to be just friends.
“And you can confide in friends about problems—like, say, visiting relatives that are maybe dangerous to you,” she said.
“Chris told you?” I asked.
“No, Declan. I have a friend of sorts who is a witch here in the city. She called me to ask about a certain young male witch in the employ of Demidova Corp. Seems her circle is hosting a visiting group of VIP witches. Has her leader worried as hell. They are apparently bigshots in the world of witches and they are completely focused on finding a young male relative. She wanted me to bring you somewhere for them to meet with you. I was more than a bit upset with her for that. Tore her a new one. Then she said you’d already had one meeting with them but they wanted to try a softer approach. Said this visiting circle is scary as F. Begged me to help,” she said.
“Yeah. The Irwin Clan of Ireland. My mom and aunt’s old circle. They trapped me on the High Line, which was pretty ingenious, really. They called in a rainstorm to soak me, as water is my weak point and since I was up in the air, I had very minimal contact with earth. We talked briefly. Sorrow showed me some things that I think surprised them, but then Macha figured out the source of my spells,” I admitted.
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Well, they’re kind of my personal problem. Family issues, I guess. But I did finally tell Chris and Tanya today, before I got sick,” I said.
“But not me?” she asked.
“Not even my aunt. They let me go, so I figured I had some time to think things through and honestly, there’s been so much else going on that it was the least of my worries. In fact, just before I got so sick, I found out that a kid from my school who makes magically resistant machines got hired by the Directorate of Anomalous Activity. I’m wondering if Anvil got him hired so its next batch of centipedes will be harder for me to spell.”
She stared at me for a moment. “That was a slick and disturbing subject change right there. I’ll let it slide as long as you promise me that you will let me help you with your problems, okay?”
“Deal. I’m considering meeting with the Macha and her circle. If I do, maybe you could call your friend to set it up?” I asked.
“Yeah, but let’s think that through first, okay? Now tell me about this kid and your suspicions.”
So I did.
“What can we do?” she asked when I finished explaining T.J. and his skills.
“If I get close, I think I can power through his mojo. But I also called in some help,” I said.
“You called someone else for help?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
“No! I called something else for help,” I said hurridly. Then I explained.
“Holy shit, really? It can travel like that?” she asked.
“I think so. It seems to have changed a great deal, kinda on its own, but I’m told that’s my fault. Sorrow says so.”
“I can’t wait to see this. When?”
“Not sure. Maybe in the next day or so.”
“You, my friend, are a never-ending, blue-eyed bundle of surprises,” she said, her tone admiring.
“Right now, I’m a tired, sick bu
ndle of useless. If it’s okay, I think I’m going to get some sleep.”
“Good idea. Need tucking in?” she asked. It seemed like an innocent enough question. Not like the thoughts that raced through my head.
“No, but thanks, Stacia,” I said.
“Alright. Goodnight warlock,” she said, standing, leaning forward to present an award-winning view down her shirt as she grabbed my head and planted a kiss on top of it.
Then she was gone and I took forever to fall asleep.
Chapter 31 - Chris
“Looks like it exploded a gas main,” Arkady said, looking up from his tablet. “Line directly under waste truck. Precise. Maybe bug robot poked a hole in it?”