Darkfever f-1

by Karen Marie Moning

  "No, Ms. Lane," Barrons replied.

  "Okay, maybe not like," I corrected, "respect. You respect O'Bannion."

  Again Barrons shook his head.

  "Well, what, then?" Barrons had accorded Rocky O'Bannion a certain solemn distance he'd not shown any of the others and I wanted to know why.

  He thought a moment. "If I were in the middle of Afghanistan's mountains and could choose either one man to fight barehanded by my side, or a full complement of sophisticated weapons, I'd take O'Bannion. I neither like nor respect him, I merely recognize what he is."

  We hurried along for a few blocks in silence.

  I was grateful to be out of the stilettos I'd worn earlier and back in comfortable shoes. When we'd left O'Bannion's, Barrons had whisked us back to the bookstore, where he'd demanded a full report of what I'd sensed. After I'd told him, he'd left me alone in the bookstore while he'd gone off by himself somewhere to "get reacquainted with some of the finer points of the city's sewage system," he'd said.

  In his absence, I'd gone upstairs and changed. I could figure out proper sewer-crawling attire all by myself—something old, dark, and grungy.

  We'd returned to the general vicinity of O'Bannion's Pub & Restaurant in a dark, nondescript sedan I'd never have noticed parked in the shadowy rear of Barrons' fascinating garage, left it at the curb several blocks from our intended destination, and hoofed it from there.

  "Stay here a minute." A hand on my shoulder, Barrons stopped me on the sidewalk, then strode into the middle of the street. He was his usual self again, occupying more space than was his due. He'd changed, too, into faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and scuffed black boots. It was the first time I'd ever seen him in something so… well, plebian for him, and the hard, muscled body those clothes showcased was nothing short of incredible, if you went for that kind of man. Thankfully, I didn't. It was like seeing a powerful, stalking black panther, blood frothing its muzzle, wearing street clothes—very weird.

  "You've got to be kidding me," I said when, shoulders bunching and biceps bulging, he lifted the manhole cover, slid it aside, and beckoned me.

  "How did you think we were going to get into the sewer system, Ms. Lane?" Barrons said impatiently.

  "I didn't. I must have purposely bypassed that thought." I walked over. "Are you sure there's not a convenient flight of stairs around here somewhere?"

  He shrugged. "There is. It's not, however, the best point of access." He glanced up at the sky "We need to get in and out as quickly as possible, Ms. Lane."

  I understood that. In very little time it would be dawn, and the streets in Dublin began bustling with people as early as daybreak. It would hardly do to come popping out of a manhole right in front of them, or worse, inches from a car's front bumper.

  I stood over the open hole in the street and peered down into the darkness. "Rats?" I asked, a bit sadly.

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Right." I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Shades?"

  "Not enough to feed on down there. They prefer the streets. Take my hand and I'll lower you down, Ms. Lane."

  "How will we get back up?" I worried.

  "I have a different route in mind for our return trip."

  "Does it involve stairs?" I asked hopefully.

  "No."

  "Of course not. How silly of me. And for our return adventure," I said, in my best game-show-announcer voice, "we will be scaling the side of Mount Everest, hiking boots to be provided by our trusty sponsor, Barrons Books and Baubles."

  "Amusing, Ms. Lane." Barrons could not have looked more unamused. "Now move."

  I took his outthrust hand, let him dangle me over the edge and drop me down. Destination: a darker, even scarier Dublin, deep underground.

  CHAPTER 16

  It turned out not to be so scary after all.

  In fact, not nearly as scary as upside had been lately.

  Down there, in the dreary, dirty sewers beneath the city, I realized how drastically my world had changed, and in such a small amount of time.

  How could a beady-eyed, twitchy-nosed rat—or even a few hundred—compare to the Gray Man? What consequence raw sewage and stench next to one's likely fate at the hands of the Many-Mouthed-Thing? What significance ruined shoes or nails torn scrabbling over rocks in collapsing parts of the city's underbelly, when measured against the brazen theft I was about to commit? Against a man who'd taken out twenty-seven people in a single night just because they were in the way of his bright and shining future, no less.

  We turned one way, then the next, through empty tunnels with unobstructed walkways, into ones fouled by slow-moving sludge. We sloped down deeper into the earth, veered up, and descended again.

  "What is that?" I pointed to a wide stream of fast-moving water, visible beyond an iron grill mounted in the wall. We'd passed many such grills, though smaller and set lower into the walls. Most were affixed in sunken spots, with large pools of black water collected around them, but I'd seen nothing like this. This looked like a river.

  It was. "The River Poddle," Barrons said. "It runs underground. You can see where it meets the River Liffey through another such grill at the Millennium Bridge. In the late eighteenth century, two rebel leaders escaped Dublin castle by following the sewer system to it. One can navigate the city fairly well, if one knows where things connect."

  "And you do," I said.

  "I do," he agreed.

  "Is there anything you don't know?" Ancient artifacts, how to freeze obscenely large bank accounts, the seedy subculture of the city, not to mention the exact layout of its dark, dirty underbelly.

  "Not much." I could discern no arrogance in his reply; it was simply fact.

  "How did you learn it all?"

  "When did you become such a chatterbox, Ms. Lane?"

  I shut up. I told you pride is my special little challenge. He didn't want to hear me? Fine, I didn't want to waste my breath on him, anyway. "Where were you born?" I asked.

  Barrons stopped short, turned around and looked at me, as if bewildered by my sudden spate of talkativeness.

  I raised my hands, bewildered too. "I don't know why I asked that. I had every intention of shutting up but then I started thinking about how I know nothing about you. I don't know where you were born, whether you have parents, siblings, a wife, children, or even exactly what it is you do."

  "You know all you need to know about me, Ms. Lane. As I do about you. Now move. We've precious little time."

  A dozen yards later, he motioned me up the rungs of a steel ladder bolted into the wall and, at the top of it, I became instantly, deeply nauseated.

  There was one extremely potent OOP—dead ahead.

  "Beyond that, Barrens," I said apologetically. "I guess we're kind of screwed, huh?"

  "That" was what looked like a bulkhead door. You know, the kind they use on bank vaults that are several feet thick, made of virtually impenetrable alloys, and open with that big spinning wheel thing like on submarine doors. It was just too bad "the handle" wasn't on our side. "Don't suppose you have a convenient stash of explosives on you somewhere?" I joked. I was tired and afraid and I was getting a little slap-happy, or maybe it was just the general, ever-increasing absurdity of my life that was making it difficult for me to take anything too seriously.

  Barrons eyed the massive door a moment, then closed his eyes.

  I could actually see the internal analysis he was performing. His eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids, as if scanning the blueprints of Dublin's sanitation system as they flashed across his retinas, Terminator-style, while he targeted our exact position, and searched for a point of entry. His eyes flew open. "You're sure it's beyond that door?"

  I nodded. "Absolutely. I could puke right here."

  "Try to restrain yourself, Ms. Lane." He turned and began walking away. "Remain here."

  I stiffened. "Where are you going?" A single flashlight suddenly seemed grossly inadequate company.

  "He's counting on natural barr
iers to protect it," Barrons tossed over his shoulder. "I'm a strong swimmer."

  I watched his flashlight bob as he hurried down a tunnel to my left and disappeared around a corner, then there was nothing but blackness and I was alone in it, with only two batteries standing between myself and a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. I hate the dark. I didn't used to, but I sure do now.

  It felt like hours, although according to my watch, it was only seven and a half minutes later that a dripping-wet Barrons opened the bulkhead door.

  "Oh God, what is this place?" I said, turning in a slow circle, transfixed. We were in a rough-hewn stone chamber that was crammed with yet more religious artifacts displayed side by side with ancient weapons. It was evident from the high-water marks on the stone that the subterranean structure flooded occasionally, but all of O'Bannion's treasures were mounted well above the highest, suspended on brackets bolted into the walls or displayed on top of tall stone pedestals.

  I could just see the dark, handsome, psychopathic ex-boxer standing here, gloating over his treasures, the frightening gleam of religious fanaticism in his heavy-lidded eyes.

  Wet footprints led from an iron grate low in the wall, beyond which lay deep black water, straight to the door. Barrons hadn't even paused to look around when he'd entered.

  "Find it, get it, and let's go," Barrons barked.

  I'd forgotten he couldn't know which item it was. Only I could. I turned in a slow circle, stretching my newfound Spidey-sense.

  I retched. Dryly. Fortunately, it seemed I was getting a little better at this. My supper stayed in my stomach. I had a sudden vision of O'Bannion coming down to discover his artifact missing, with neat little piles of puke all over the place and wondered what he would make of it. I snickered; a measure of how completely freaked out I was. "That." I pointed to an item mounted just above my head, almost lost amid the assortment of similar items surrounding it, and turned to look at Barrons who was standing behind me, just outside the bulkhead door. He was staring down the corridor. Now he turned slowly and glanced in.

  "Fuck," he exploded, punching the door. "I didn't even see it." Then louder, "Fuck." He turned away. His back to me, he snapped, "Are you sure that's it?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Well, get it, Ms. Lane. Don't just stand there."

  I blinked. "Me?"

  "You're standing right next to it."

  "But it makes me feel sick," I protested.

  "Now's the perfect time to start working on that little problem of yours. Get it."

  Stomach heaving all the while, I lifted the thing from the wall. The metal brackets suspending it popped up with an audible click when I removed its weight. "Now what?" I said.

  Barrons laughed and the sound echoed hollowly off the stone. "Now, Ms. Lane, we run like hell, because you just set off a dozen alarms."

  I jerked. "What are you talking about? I don't hear anything."

  "Silent. Straight to every house he owns. Depending on where he is at the moment, we have little, or even less, time."

  Barrons wasn't turning out to be a good influence on me at all. In a single night he'd gotten me to dress like a floozy, burgle like a common thief, and now he had me cussing like a sailor as I seconded his opinion. "Fuck," I exclaimed.

  It occurred to me as I raced through the predawn streets of Dublin, with a spear longer than I was tall tucked beneath my arm, that I didn't expect to live much longer.

  "Lose the pessimism, Ms. Lane," Barrons said when I informed him of my thoughts. "It's a self-fulfilling prophecy."

  "Huh?" I said, gasping for breath. I tried to fling myself into the car, but succeeded only in getting wedged in the open door by the spear.

  "Slide it over the top of the seat and into the back," he barked.

  I managed to unjam myself and did just that. I had to roll the window down so part of the shaft could protrude. Barrons slid behind the wheel at the same moment I dropped into the passenger seat and we both slammed our doors.

  "Expect to die," he said, "and you will. The power of thought is far greater than most people ever realize." He started the car and pulled away from the curb. "Fuck," he said again. It seemed to be the word of the night.

  A Gardai car was passing us, moving very slowly. Fortunately it was on Barrons' side, not mine, and the cop couldn't see the butt of the spear sticking out.

  "We're not doing anything wrong," I said instantly. "Well, I mean, not that he knows, right? Surely the alarm hasn't been reported to the police yet, has it?"

  "Whether or not it has, he just got a good look at us, Ms. Lane. We're on O'Bannion turf. Who do you think pays to have his streets patrolled at these hours?"

  Understanding dawned slowly. "You're saying that even if the cop doesn't know now, once he finds out O'Bannion was robbed…" I trailed off.

  "He'll pass on our descriptions," Barrons finished for me.

  "We're dead," I said matter-of-factly.

  "There's that pessimism again," said Barrons.

  "Realism. I'm talking about reality here, Barrons. Pull your head out. What do you think O'Bannion's going to do to us when he finds out? Give us a little slap on the wrist?"

  "Attitude shapes reality, Ms. Lane, and yours, to coin a grossly overused American phrase, sucks."

  I didn't get what he was trying to tell me that night, but later, when it counted, I would remember and understand. The single greatest advantage anyone can take into any battle is hope. A sidhe-seer without hope, without an unshakable determination to survive, is a dead sidhe-seer. A sidhe-seer who believes herself outgunned, outmanned, may as well point that doubt straight at her temple, pull the trigger, and blow out her own brains. There are really only two positions one can take toward anything in life: hope or fear. Hope strengthens, fear kills.

  But I understood little of such things that night and so I rode in white-knuckled silence as we sped through deserted Dublin streets until at last we pulled in to the brightly lit alley between Barrons' garage and residence. "What the heck did we just steal, anyway, Barrons?" I said.

  He smiled faintly as the garage door rose. Our headlamps illuminated the gleaming grilles of his auto collection. We drove inside and parked the old sedan in the rear. "It has been called many things, but you might know it as the Spear of Longinus," he said.

  "Never heard of it," I said.

  "How about the Spear of Destiny?" he asked. "Or the Holy Lance?"

  I shook my head.

  "Do you subscribe to any religion, Ms. Lane?"

  I climbed out of the car and reached in back for the spear. "I go to church sometimes."

  "You are holding the spear that pierced Christ's side as he hung on the cross," he said.

  I nearly dropped it. "This thing killed Jesus?" I exclaimed, dismayed. And I was holding it? I hurried after him toward the open garage door. I didn't consider myself a particularly religious person, but I had the sudden fiercest urge to fling it away, scrub my hands, then go to the nearest church and pray.

  We ducked beneath the door as it slid soundlessly down, and headed across the alley. Shades lurked to my right just beyond the reach of the floodlights illuminating the rear entrances, but I didn't spare them a glance. I was intent on getting inside and out of the wide-open night where a crime lord's bodyguard might pick me off at any moment with a well-aimed bullet.

  "He was already dead when it happened, Ms. Lane. A Roman soldier, Gaius Cassius Longinus, did it. The next day was the Passover and the Jewish leaders didn't want the victims hanging on display throughout their holy day. They asked Pilate to hasten their deaths so they might be taken down. Crucifixion," Barrons explained, "was a slow business; it could take days for the hanged man to die. When soldiers broke the legs of the two men beside Christ, they could no longer use them to push up for breath and expired quickly of suffocation. However, Christ appeared already dead, so instead of breaking his legs, one of the soldiers pierced his side to prove it. Perversely, the so-called Spear of Longinus has been coveted ever si
nce, for alleged mythic powers. Many have claimed to possess the sacred relic: Constantine, Charlemagne, Otto the Great, and Adolph Hitler, to name but a few. Each believed it to be the true source of all his power."

  I stepped into the rear foyer of Barrons' residence, slammed the door behind me, and rounded on him with disbelief. "So let me get this straight. We just broke in to a mobster's private collection and stole what he believes to be the true source of all his power? And we did this why?"

  "Because, Ms. Lane, the Spear of Destiny has another name, the Spear of Luin, or Luisne, the Flaming Spear. And it is not a Roman weapon at all but one brought to this world by the Tuatha Dé Danaan. It is a Seelie Hallow and just happens to be one of only two weapons known to man that can kill a Fae. Any Fae. No matter the caste. Even the Queen herself is said to fear this spear. But if you like, I can ring up O'Bannion and see if he might forgive us if we bring it back. Shall I, Ms. Lane?"

  I gripped the spear. "This could kill the Many-Mouthed-Thing?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "And the Gray Man, too?"

  He nodded again.

  "Hunters?"

  A third nod.

  "Even Fae royalty?" I wanted to be perfectly clear on this.

  "Yes, Ms. Lane."

  "Really?" I breathed.

  "Really."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Do you have a plan for dealing with O'Bannion?"

  Barrons reached past me, turned on the bright overhead in the anteroom, and flipped off the exterior floodlights. Beyond the window, the back alley went dark. "Go to your room, Ms. Lane, and do not come out again—for any reason—until I come for you. Do you understand me?"

  There was no way I was going to go sit somewhere and passively await my death, and I told him so. "I will not go upstairs and cower—"

  "Now."

  I glared at him. I hated it when he cut me off with one of those one-word commands of his. I had news for him: I wasn't like Fiona, pining away for crumbs of his affection, willing to yield to any demand he might make to get them. "You can't order me around like I'm F—" This time I was glad he cut me off before I betrayed that I'd eavesdropped.