by Andy Hyland
‘What the hell have you done to need that?’
‘Well if I could just tell you, I wouldn’t have needed to buy the bloody thing, would I?’
The edge in her voice gave her away. It wasn’t often you’d see Melanie scared, and even now she covered it well. Still, it was there. She wasn’t going to let this rest. ‘Fine. You’ve spoilt the day anyway. Give me five minutes. Stay here.’
I walked quickly over to the shop and squeezed past a small gang of schoolchildren to get inside. What to get? I’d promised I’d pick up something, but didn’t want to come on too heavy. Nothing too fancy, or flashy, or she wouldn’t take it. Something light. Something ironic. In the end I settled on a small metallic statue of the building and waited at a till to pay for it. The assistant here was much better – a bright friendly smile, an apology for the wait, and finished off with the obligatory ‘have a nice day!’
I pocketed the gift and made my way back to the door. Just before I pushed it open, I glanced out and froze. Melanie was standing exactly where I left her, but now she was flanked by two police officers. The one to her left, young, skinny and disinterested, was paying more attention to the view than to what was going on, but his colleague looked to be on a mission. Once upon a time he must have been in shape enough to get through the physical for the job, but now the buttons on his shirt looked in danger of flying off, and his jowls wobbled as he spat out his questions.
Melanie was disconcerted, her eyes flitting from side to side, shoulders slightly hunched – a rabbit looking for an escape route. She’d come here thinking she was relatively safe, and she was. There was a limit to who could follow. But nothing stopped them – whoever they were this time – just sending a couple of cops up after her. And the fact they could do that was worrying in itself.
I nearly – I kid you not – slipped into knight in shining armor mode, but then self-preservation kicked in. And there was, I am almost ashamed to admit, a sense of satisfaction at seeing her like this after the crap she’d dragged me into so many times. There was no reason why the cops should know me, but something was going on, and in the circles I moved in it paid to be very, very careful. I stepped back behind a postcard rack. Out of sight, but with a good view.
Fat guy’s hands drifted down to the handcuffs hanging from his belt, and for one moment it looked like he was really going to use them. Something changed his mind, and after giving his nuts a quick scratch (hey, if your hand’s down there anyway, then why not?) he instead took her arm, and with Skinny taking the other, they headed back inside.
I followed at a distance and saw them step into an elevator. No way was I getting into the same one. Melanie was likely to kick off and try to get me to do something. That wasn’t going to do either of us any good. I was duty bound, or so I felt, to make sure she was alright, so I stepped into the next available elevator and left the observation deck about a minute after she started her descent.
My elevator only contained three other people, so I leaned against the corner and stretched my legs out. Space, and time to think.
‘Tired already? It’s only eleven thirty you know. How you gonna’ get through the day if you’re all worn out already?’ The voice came from a jovial guy with wide shoulders. Blue shorts, white T-shirt and a shiny new NYC cap. One of his arms was draped around the thin waist of a young freckled redhead. They wore matching smiles.
I grunted and got back to pondering. I’d spent my entire adult life on this side of the Atlantic, but there’s still enough of a British streak to make me feel uncomfortable with the easy familiarity of some Americans. Just one of the many reasons New York suits me down to the concrete ground.
The guy in the cap didn’t take the hint. By the time we stepped out of the elevator I knew more than I’d ever wanted to about Steve and Bobbi from Detroit. Most of it was forgotten instantly, but I just couldn’t shake the comments about how, as newly-weds, their sex life wasn’t everything they’d hoped it would be, but they were sure things would get better. ‘With practice,’ Steve chuckled, giving Bobbi’s waist a squeeze. She’d giggled. And the damn elevator just would not speed up.
I beat them to the next elevator and started the final part of the descent. This one was packed, and I stood in the center with my shoulders hunched, trying not to touch anyone. It was much more relaxing.
Melanie and the cops weren’t in the lobby, and when I stepped out into the noise of the sidewalk I couldn’t see them through the throng of bodies hurrying past, ducking and diving. At least two patrol cars sped past in ten seconds, adding their own fumes to the stench of the street, and drowning out the buzz of the crowds with their sirens. She could be anywhere by now.
Turning to head up the street, a blue figure in the corner of my eye grabbed my attention. It was the thin cop from the observation deck. No sign of his partner, or of Melanie. For a moment I hesitated. This was stupid and obvious, and there were better ways to find out, but sod it, I was in a hurry.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, over-doing my native London accent, and stepping firmly into his path. ‘Could you help me please?’ He looked disinterested, staring over my shoulder, so I moved to step two and waved a hundred-dollar bill in his face. ‘A lady dropped this. Young lady, cream coat, headscarf. I don’t suppose you’ll have seen her?’
The cop’s eyes followed the note like a kitten focused on a piece of string. For a moment I thought he might actually pounce. ‘I only ask,’ I continued, ‘because I thought I saw her with your colleague a bit earlier. If she’s still with him, then perhaps -’
The cop snorted, cutting me off. ‘She was with Harry, sure, but not anymore.’ His voice was high-pitched and nasal, like a ten year-old whining. ‘Look, why don’t I just take that down the station?’
He went to grab the bill but I jerked it back just out of reach, and gave him one of my most meaningful looks. He looked confused, but bless him, he caught on soon enough. He nodded and gave a lopsided grin, like we were in on some big secret. Cretin.
‘Look, I don’t know where she is, okay, and that’s the truth, on my mother’s grave. We were taking her in – just for questioning – about some murder on the upper west side. She’s been wanted since last night. Don’t ask me for the details because I don’t got any. Anyway, we get out here with her and this car – nice car – pulls up and this big guy gets out. Not ripped or anything, he was just a guy in a suit, but he was, well, big. He tells us that he’s taking her and flashes Harry a business card. Harry wasn’t having any of that, but like I said, the guy was big, so we call it in. Got ordered to hand her over and walk away. Straight from the top. Harry wasn’t happy about that, but what could we do? The big guy drags her in the car – nice car - and it goes off. That’s all I know. Can I have that now?’ He eyed the bill greedily. I shrugged and handed it over.
‘Where’s Harry?’ I asked as the cop turned away.
‘Coffee.’
‘Did he keep the business card? The one the big guy handed over?’
‘Nah, he ditched it. Should be around here somewhere.’ He gestured vaguely at the sidewalk, and strode off.
The foot traffic was getting heavier, and it took a couple of minutes of being bumped and jostled before I spotted a small cream card near the gutter. Two attempts and some bruised fingers later, I grabbed it. And felt the mother of all jolts run from my fingertips, straight up my arm, and grab my heart, squeezing hard. Somehow I managed to drop it, and fell back clutching my chest. Anywhere else, this might have got me some attention that I really didn’t want. Luckily, not here.
I backed up against a wall, hands on knees, catching my breath and willing my heart to calm down. All the while glaring at the card, which just sat there as I went over my options. I swear it was smirking at me. The pain flared once more, sizzed and left. No lasting effects as far as I could tell. Just a really unpleasant warning shot across the bows.
Couldn’t just leave the card sitting there. Not only would it do some serious damage if the wrong unsuspec
ting person got hold of it, but it was the only link I had to whatever was going on with Melanie. I pulled a handkerchief out of my coat pocket, and gave it a flick, before pretending to blow my nose. This gave me a chance to whisper a basic ward onto it. Nothing fancy, and it wouldn’t last more than a few hours, but that should be enough. That is, as long as my guess was correct, and the card was more of a nasty party trick than a major piece of arcana. If I was wrong, well. It was going to hurt all over again.
Three steps, a quick bend and pinch, and the card was wrapped in the handkerchief and safely tucked away. There was no jolt, just a fierce buzzing. I wouldn’t want it this close to me when the ward failed. Time to get moving.
But first things first. Now I really was being watched, and it wasn’t remotely subtle.
Chapter two
There are two reasons to have someone tailed. The first reason is the obvious one: you need information. This requires finesse. Done properly, and I’m an experienced practitioner myself, I consider it a work of art.
The second reason for a tailing is pretty much the complete opposite of the first. You want the victim to know damn well that they’re being followed. It’s intimidation. You want to get under their skin, to make it clear that whatever they’re up to, it’s known about and someone’s not happy. For this, you can pretty much send any goon that’s available.
We were undoubtedly dealing with a type two tailing here. They’d sent a shambler to get the job done. A shambler, in broad daylight. In darkness, or in the Fades, or in more…mixed company, it might have blended in, if I was distracted enough. No chance it would have gone completely unnoticed, but it’s purpose wouldn’t have been so apparent.
But here we were in broad daylight on a New York City street. The tang, the essence was unmistakeable. Add to that the shuffling gait and the blank stare, and the portly middle-aged man in the expensive suit might as well have been carrying a neon sign that read ‘Hey there!’
And if you’re one of the Aware, and you squint slightly and turn your gaze to the side…just there…you can, God help you, make out the hunch of the bug on his back. One clawed, translucent tentacle wrapped around the guy’s neck, and another reaching way down between his legs, cupping his meat and veg. No need to guess how the poor bugger got snared.
Shamblers may not be the fastest tools around, but they’re persistent enough to cause a problem, particularly if you needed, as I did, to get somewhere in a hurry and avoid complications. Between my own particular magical musk, and whatever the freaky business card was kicking out, I wasn’t going to be able to shake it off any time soon. And Simeon would be far less than happy if I turned up dragging a shambler behind me.
It’s amazing how quickly a day can turn from reasonably pleasant to utter crap.
Two blocks down I found an alley that would work. Cluttered, not overlooked, and no serving staff on smoke breaks. A quick frisk of my pockets and satchel bag produced the tools for the job at hand – a slightly chipped rectangular mirror, an eight-inch steel spike, and a small glass vial of angeldust. Not really anything to do with angels, truth be told, but some multi-purpose blue sparkling gunk that Becky whips up in batches. Don’t be around town without it. I set all three items down near the wall. Close enough to grab but out of the way enough to avoid being trodden on. Hopefully.
In a group, shamblers can be a massive problem. Think zombie horde with a bit more nous behind it. In fact – point of interest here – shamblers are the reality behind all the zombie stories and legends. Alone, they’re manageable, as long as you have the space, the technique, and a fair amount of warning.
This particular shambler was in a hurry, being ridden hard. Hiding behind a rubbish cart, I only had to stick out a boot to send it tripping and sprawling to the ground.
I pounced on its legs, grabbing the glass vial and emptying over the guy’s back, covering the bug and sending it into spasms. As it reared and shook, the tentacles around and inside the poor bloke sent him bucking and twisting in turn.
There is, no doubt, an exact name, probably in Latin, for what a bug is. A very minor demon, probably an imp or something like that. To me, they were bugs – parasites. Vile, opportunistic scum. Once they got their hooks in, it was usually game over, unless you’re really lucky. I threw my weight down until the last wave of resistance ebbed and disappeared. All the time trying to stop my memory taking me back to a very dark place.
I flipped the guy over, and could immediately see any rescue attempt was a waste of time. The bug’s tentacle had left his throat but there was no gasping or choking – just a wildness in the eyes. I reached over for the mirror, wanting to get this over with. Sure enough, when I held it against his nose and mouth there was no fogging. The poor bloke probably died days ago. Body and soul held together past their time by the piggybacking nightmare.
Sighing, I reached for the spike, the instrument of last resort. With the bug neutralised, there was enough of a gap to cut the soul loose, letting it depart for good. Line the spike up, the tip in the nose, and get ready to drive it hard. I paused and bowed my head. Prayer at this point was too little, too late. ‘Sorry mate,’ I whispered. ‘I wish I could tell you that you’re heading to a better place.’
A few seconds later I re-emerged onto the street and carried on South. Anyone looking in my eyes would have seen the storm. But hey, it’s Manhattan, and nobody around here does that.
It took me an hour to get down past City Hall. The walk did me good, getting the legs and heart pumping. Breathe in, breathe out, forget about the poor sod I sent flying into hell. It was inevitable and necessary, but I wish to God it didn’t have to be me that did the deed. Some things stick with you. Some things you can’t get out of your system. And driving a steel spike up into the brain of a still-moving corpse is one of those things.
A group of tourists were gathered outside St Paul’s chapel, consulting maps and comparing schedules. I sighed again, reminded once more of how my day of innocence and fun had been so easily railroaded. I moved past the group and down the side of the building, beyond some overflowing bins. In a patch of shade that was mysteriously well-placed, a rusted metal door was set deep into the stonework. I rapped three times and waited. Nothing was going to force the door, and if you showed any sign of impatience, the git would keep you waiting an extra ten minutes. I know this.
A sharp crack, and the door opened an inch or so. I put my shoulder to it and shoved it open another foot or so, wide enough to squeeze past. Inside, a weak bare bulb illuminated a narrow wooden walkway. Somewhere below came the soft babble of last night’s heavy rain, steadily fleeing the city. Behind me the door glided shut silently and without effort.
‘I don’t suppose you’re up this way at all, are you?’ I called out. ‘No,’ I muttered to myself after a few seconds. ‘Because that would be a little too easy, wouldn’t it.’
It took nearly another hour to get where I needed to go. The distance wasn’t that great, but it’s all less that straightforward, and some parts need to be tackled slowly. Like that ladder at the start. The first time I tried that one, I wound up with a twisted ankle and slightly bruised ribs. But nothing worth troubling a hospital with. Particularly given my complete lack of insurance.
The final stage was a maze-like warren of corridors, green mould slowly conquering institutional yellow tiling. I was deep now. The buzz of the roads above had slowly receded, and now the only sound was the unrelenting heavy drip of water from decaying pipes. If you took precisely the correct turns in the correct order, you would suddenly find yourself facing a red wooden door. If those turns were not taken, you could wander down here forever and never find it. A light, discreet, and effective magic - the very best kind. Etched onto the stone around the door were far more serious runes. The kind that took the uninvited and sent them to a place that they really didn’t want to go. The place was impregnable. You got in at Simeon’s discretion or you didn’t get in at all.
I paused outside the door. Noises
from within. Not exactly a heated argument, but voices were raised, one of them Simeon’s. Unfortunately the sound was too muffled to make out anything but indistinct fragments. In any case, Simeon was a friend, and I don’t like spying on friends unless it’s absolutely necessary. You’ve got to have some standards.
I raised my hand to knock but the door beat me to it and swung open. The man on the other side was tall and well-kept, but odd in a way you couldn’t put your finger on. I once told him he looked Dickensian. That nearly got me a black eye. It wasn’t the clothes – they were modern and nondescript. Maybe it was the wave in the thick black hair, or the way he moved. A man who carried himself as if he had all the time in the world. An oddity in a city of rushing maniacs. He smiled politely and nodded. ‘Just the man I was looking for. Do come inside.’
‘Inside’ was a cavern some thirty foot high at the centre, the ceiling gently curving away from the apex, creating an upturned dish of some size hidden away below the city. An army cot lay against the far wall of the gigantic room, and a selection of desks, tables and sofas littered the floor, old but in excellent condition. The walls themselves were covered in endless shelves of books. Some of the books had escaped and covered every available surface. A few had settled in piles, looking to me like they were trying to reproduce in a frenzy of broken-spined wordage. Ladders of assorted sizes and construction leaned precariously against the shelves at intervals. Doors led off to various side-rooms, most of which I’d never been invited into. The scene was lit by candles, hurricane lamps and battery-powered camping torches. Not that Simeon needed them to see – such comforts were for the convenience of visitors. Speaking of which, there was a guy nearly out of sight behind one of the bookshelves. Brown coat, brown hat, head down, thumbing through Weister’s ‘Cacophany of Confuscations.’ One of Simeon’s favourites.
‘Ignore the man behind the bookshelf,’ Simeon said, waving me over to a sofa. ‘My, that sounded positively Wizard of Oz, didn’t it? Please,’ he gestured. I slumped down while he perched on a stiff-backed wooden chair opposite me.