by Jack Conner
He stumbled as he moved toward them, nearly fell. Shaking, he knelt over the forms. Very slowly, knowing something of what he would see, he peeled back the blanket from one.
Looking back at him was Sasha’s face. He was pale as bone and dressed as a young gentleman, just as he would have wanted. A sharp razor or knife had opened up his throat from ear to ear, creating a nightmarish grin below his chin. The blade had pierced his jugular and windpipe, and Stevrin could see all the tubes and layers. Bloodstains covered his expensive shirt and jacket.
As if in a dream, Stevrin moved to the other form. It was Balard, and he was just as dead. Stevrin knelt between them. His throat tightened, and tears burned his eyes. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t draw enough breath.
“How?” he finally managed to rasp.
“We don’t know,” Duncan said. “We did what you said, dispatched some boys to follow the Archminister and his convoy. It’s late, of course, and there are few public transportations still running this time of night in the Lowers. Thus I thought your suggestion to dress up a couple of the boys well enough to take a taxi a wise one.” He paused, and his voice sounded genuinely regretful. “Perhaps it was too wise. It obviously alerted those they sought to trail. I don’t know if it was the Archminister, or the cab drivers, but it must have been someone connected with the convoy.”
Stevrin nodded. “It wasn’t the cab drivers.”
“How do you know?”
He didn’t, of course, but in his mind’s eye he imagined three long black autos winding through the streets. Someone looks in the rearview mirror and sees a cab or two following them. They stop the car, raise a hand. The cab driver, seeing the Guild flags and insignia, stops. He offers no resistance as a leather-gloved hand hauls a squirming young boy from the rear of his auto. A blade flashes. Blood spurts.
“How’d you find them?” Stevrin asked.
“When they never returned, we sent out searchers.”
With a shaking hand, Stevrin reached out and closed Sasha’s staring eyes, than Balard’s. “Next time,” he said, “I will go.”
Chapter 6
However, the next night the Archminister did not leave. His convoy had returned in the morning after the fight, and neither Archminister Barnes nor any of his colleagues looked in any way remorseful about the murders they had committed, if indeed they’d committed them. In any event, Stevrin had his boys ready themselves to follow the Archminister again that night—except the Archminister didn’t go out. He lived in the Guild building, in the penthouse on the top floor, and had no need to leave.
Stevrin began to grow nervous. Despite his truce with Skint Went McKinley, he knew the crew boss wanted him out, and McKinley might feel compelled to move against him if he didn’t leave. However, on the fourth night after the wristbind, something happened.
Stevrin was on the knoll overlooking the Guild building, having a most important discussion with Jack and Harry underneath the biggest live oak. Stars twinkled overhead beyond the usual layer of smog, and a chill wind blew.
“We need a name,” Harry proposed.
“What do you mean?” Stevrin said, gingerly touching his lower lip, whose swelling was going down.
“A name, you moron. The boys. Well, all the other gangs have names.”
“We’re not really a gang,” Stevrin pointed out. “Only pretending to be.”
“Bah, we’re a gang enough,” Harry had insisted. “A group of lads sponsored by a criminal organization. Stevrin’s our crew boss, an official lieutenant of Madam Agatha.”
“I never thought about it that way.”
“I think it’s stupid,” Jack said. “We’re only a temporary gang, anyway, if we’re a gang. Which we’re not.”
“We’re not temporary,” Harry said. “We’ve worked other jobs before. Spying and such.”
That was true. Madam had enemies, and people she was afraid might become enemies, and sometimes she needed them investigated. Sometimes the job even went beyond spying, though Stevrin had never heard of any actually killing. He wouldn’t be surprised if it went on, though. Agatha was not to be trifled with. He himself had led a couple of minor spy jobs before, and he knew what sort of results she expected.
“What kinda name did you have in mind?” he asked.
Harry looked at him proudly. “Stevrin’s Boys.” He crossed his arms over his narrow chest, daring anyone to contradict him.
Stevrin had to smile. Ever since his fight with McKinley, word had spread among his gang, and the boys looked on him with new respect. It was natural for Harry to want to capitalize on it.
“That’s stupid,” Jack said. “Stevrin’s Boys. Why not just stick your tongue up his ass now and get it over with, Harry?”
“It ain’t so stupid,” Harry said. “What’s stupid about it?”
“I like it,” Stevrin said.
“Yeah, well, you would,” Jack said. “How about the Spy-boys?”
Harry snorted. “That’s awful.”
Jack scratched his head. “The Shitkickers.”
“Better, but still miserable. How about the Madam’s Eyes?”
“Fuck you.”
They went back and forth for a while. Finally, a thought came to Stevrin, and he held up his hands to silence them. The others turned to him eagerly.
“You have a name?” Harry said. “What is it?”
“Tell us!” Jack demanded.
Stevrin grinned wider. He let the suspense build, then said, “The Whoresons.”
The boys stared at him. Then, as one, Harry and Jack laughed. “That’s fuckin’ the worst one yet,” Harry said.
Jack wiped a tear out of his eyes. “So incredibly bad.”
“I don’t care,” Stevrin announced. “I’ve decided. We’re the Whoresons.”
“No,” Jack said emphatically. “We are not.”
“We’re not the fucking Whoresons,” Harry agreed. “I refuse.”
Duncan appeared, nightmarish as ever, out of the dark. A pigeon perched on his white-stained shoulder. “If you have a moment from your lofty matters,” he said.
“What is it?” Stevrin said.
“It is the Archminister.”
Stevrin brightened. “Another convoy?”
“Indeed. Shall I ready your finery so that you may hail a cab?”
“No. I won’t be needing it.”
“But you said—”
“I said I’d go this time. I didn’t say how.” Stevrin patted the bicycle that he’d propped up against the tree. He’d bought it three days ago with Agatha’s money.
Duncan’s eyes widened. “Clever. They will not be able to see you following, whereas the lights of the taxis must have alerted them to Sash and Balard.”
“Yep.” Stevrin still remembered the boys’ funerals. They had been held right here in this park, buried just south of the duck pond. All the boys from Stevrin’s crew and half of McKinley’s gang had attended. To Stevrin’ surprise, the boys in his crew had not faltered after Sasha’s and Balard’s deaths. In fact, the killings seemed to have brought home to them how important their assignment was. It had bound them tighter to Stevrin, had galvanized them against the Guild.
“Then you had best be quick,” Duncan said. “The convoy is idling at the curb on the south side of the building even now. The Archminister could leave at any moment. Are you sure you would not like company?”
Stevrin nodded to the two bicycles leaning against the second-largest tree. “Harry and Jack are coming with me. Duncan, you’re in charge of the Whoresons while I’m gone.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re not the fucking Whoresons,” Jack said.
Stevrin climbed on his bike. “Come on, Whoresons, let’s ride.”
“That is so stupid,” Harry said, but he obeyed.
* * *
Night enfolded Stevrin, black and cold. He pedaled harder. Wind whipped his hair, stung his eyes. Behind him Harry and Jack rode as fast as they could. They couldn’t be late.
>
The Archminister and his colleagues were just emerging from the Guild building when Stevrin and the others pulled to a stop at the corner. Stevrin breathed a sigh of relief, and he and Jack exchanged nervous smiles. Harry just looked nervous. Stevrin was uncomfortably aware of being very close to the Guild building, and a glance upward showed gargoyles leering down at him. He tried to spot a moving eye, but couldn’t. The last few days had been wet, though, and the gargoyles glistened with moisture. It dripped off their knotted horns, their bulging eyes, and their long, pointed teeth.
The click of doors opening. Stevrin looked up to see the chauffeurs of the long black limousines hold the rear cabin doors open. The three Ministers slipped smoothly inside. Stevrin caught a look at Archminister Barnes, tall and immaculately dressed in a black suit, complete with hat and cane; he had white hair, a white mustache, and cold gray eyes. He was not unhandsome for a gentleman in his mid-sixties, and there were even smile lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes. Stevrin wondered if he’d been smiling as he watched his goons kill Sasha and Balard. Perhaps he’d slit their throats himself.
Their passengers safely ensconced, the chauffeurs retook their seats, and the convoy rumbled off through the streets. It was late, about three o’clock, and the sound of the autos echoed off the sides of nearby buildings.
Jack and Harry started to follow, but Stevrin stopped them. The autos turned a corner. Still he did not follow.
“Come on!” Jack said. “We’ll lose ‘em.”
“We don’t need to worry about losing them,” Stevrin said. “Not right now. Let’s just not get caught. We can follow the sound of their engines.”
Shortly enough Stevrin started pedaling, following the direction of the engines’ purring, and water on the street squelched off his tires. He found himself pedaling faster and faster as the convoy built up speed. Without much traffic on the roads, the Archminister was making good time. Too good. Maybe Jack had been right. Stevrin’s legs burned, and pinpricks filled his chest. White steam issued from his mouth, and he could hear the panting of the other boys just behind him.
The convoy’s engines receded at times, then returned. Every time they faded Stevrin grew frantic. At last he was taking turns so fast he wasn’t sure where he was any more. He didn’t know the Lowers well. He wasn’t even sure he could find his way back to the park.
The sounds of the convoy escalated. It sounded as though they’d turned to the right, somewhere up ahead. Stevrin tried to look for a turn-off, couldn’t see one ...
Jack shouted.
Stevrin wheeled. A dark shape rushed in out of the blackness to the rear. An auto engine, suddenly gunned, roared in his ears.
“Fuck!” he said, even as the auto rushed at them. Its lights were off, but a passing street-lamp caught the silver gleam of a grill, like the teeth of some beast.
“Scatter!” Stevrin said.
Unfortunately, the car had chosen its spot well. They were hemmed in by the high walls of brick office buildings on both sides. It must have been tailing them, far back and at such reduced speed they hadn’t heard it.
It roared toward Harry. He swerved out of the way, or tried to. The corner of the car’s bumper clipped him. His bike spun about. Threw him to the ground against a wall. The car nearly crushed him. He curled up his legs at the last second. The auto whipped past.
Rushed toward Stevrin. He pedaled so fast his legs filled with fire.
“Your gun!” he called to Jack. “Use your gun!”
Jack looked dumfounded, but then he brightened. Awkwardly, with one hand on the handles of his bicycle, he dug out the gun from his shoulder holster.
“Fire at the tires!” Stevrin said. He could barely hear the sound of his own voice. The roar of the auto rushed in his ears. It was right behind him. He could feel the vibration in the ground as it neared him, smell the gasoline-and-grease stench of its engine.
The auto roared closer.
Its bumper touched his rear wheel. The jolt nearly knocked him over. He pedaled faster. The engine gunned, the car surged forward, it would be the end of him—
Jack’s pistol boomed.
The squeal of rubber on asphalt. The auto swerved wildly, crashed headfirst into an office building wall. Jack, who’d lagged behind, wheeled around it frantically. His eyes were all whites, and sweat drenched his face and shirt, matted his hair. He started to pedal past Stevrin, but Stevrin said, “Wait! We need to get Harry!”
Jack hesitated, then nodded and slowed down. Together they sat on their bikes looking back at the auto, panting. Smoke billowed from its ruined front end. Smashed bricks littered its hood, as well as the sidewalk around it. A human shape sat slumped over the wheel. The auto’s rear was dark, though. Stevrin thought he saw movement, but he wasn’t sure.
“Nice shooting,” he said.
Jack smiled sickly. “Thanks.” He looked at his gun like he couldn’t quite figure out what it was doing in his hand.
Stevrin squinted. By the light of the street lamps he could see a small, boy-sized shadow rising from the ground on the far side of the auto, on the opposite side of the street from it. Harry dragged himself to his feet and leaned against the building wall for support. He breathed heavily. Stevrin couldn’t tell if he was hurt or not.
“Come on,” Stevrin said to Jack.
He circled his bike around and walked it toward Harry, slowly, cautiously. He put as much space between himself and the smoking vehicle as possible. He wanted to be on his feet, ready to bolt in any direction. Jack followed, teeth chattering. The slapping of their wheels on the wet asphalt sounded very loud in Stevrin’s ears. With dread, he realized he could no longer hear the sound of the Archminister’s convoy.
Harry, groaning, limped toward them, walking his bike. It appeared dented but operable. “Shit,” he said. A hand rose to his head, and Stevrin thought he saw blood leaking down from his hairline.
“Shit and fuck is more like it,” Jack said. He and Stevrin slowed their bikes, waiting for Harry to join them. They stood very close to the auto now. Stevrin smelled its smoke, the stench of burning oil. It occurred to him that it might explode.
“Shit and fuck and hell,” he said. “Now let’s get going. If we hurry—”
The back door of the auto flew open. A large shape staggered out. Smoke from the interior wreathed it. Harry screamed. Stevrin jumped.
The figure took a faltering step forward, then another. A long black trench coat cloaked it. A shadow hid its face, but Stevrin could see the glitter of its eyes. His eyes, he thought. It was certainly a man, tall and broad-shouldered, hulking. The gleam of a knife shown from his right hand. A long, curved knife.
The man staggered forward. He didn’t speak.
“Shoot him!” Stevrin said, elbowing Jack.
Jack, startled out of his reverie, raised his gun arm. It trembled, but he took careful aim. Only about fifteen feet separated him from the man—fourteen. Thirteen.
The man stepped into a pool of moonlight. The shadow slipped away from his face, revealing it in all its ghastly splendor. Stevrin gasped. The man’s face—well, there were pieces of many faces. Strips of skin from a dozen or more people had been stitched together over the man’s skull. There was white skin, black skin, gray skin, tan skin, yellow skin. It was as though he were some mad patchwork quilt made of human flesh. Lines of stitches wriggled across the face like fat black worms. A Returner, Stevrin realized. It must be.
The man’s eyes appeared blue and moist and human, surrounded by a sea of grotesquery. His tongue licked his white teeth.
“Go on, shoot me,” he said. His voice was smooth and crisp, either upper class or faking it.
He stepped forward. Raised his knife toward Jack and Stevrin. Stevrin held no doubt that it had been this knife which had robbed Sasha and Balard of life. Jack’s hand shook so badly he couldn’t aim his gun.
The patchwork man took another step. Another. Stevrin was about to wrench Jack’s revolver loose himself and let th
e thing have it, but suddenly Jack came back to himself and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared, and smoke rose up from it. A bullet punched the patchwork man right in the chest. He staggered with the impact, but smiled and kept on coming. Jack fired again. Again. Bullet holes rent the man’s chest.
“Shit,” Jack said, his voice shaking. “I have one bullet left—”
“Shoot his head!” Stevrin shouted. “He’s a Returner. Aim for the brain!”
Jack aimed.
The patchwork man stepped closer. He was almost to the boys. Stevrin could smell him. He stank of death.
Jack pulled the trigger. A bullet punched the patchwork man in his forehead. A hole appeared. It did not bleed. The man reeled backward. Stevrin’s heart leapt. Jack had done it!
But then, amazingly, impossibly, the patchwork man righted himself. He took another step forward. Another.
Jack pulled the trigger again. The gun clicked empty.
The boys exchanged glances.
“Fuck,” said Stevrin.
The patchwork man loomed above them. They were within easy reach of his knife. Stevrin coiled himself to leap, wondering if he could be quick enough to escape that long, curved blade. The man held it with easy familiarity.
The man drew back his arm to strike.
Crunch! The man stumbled. Another crunch, and he stumbled again. Stevrin saw a brick sail through the air and hit him on the back of the head. The patchwork man grunted and fell against the wall. Stevrin and Jack needed no more opportunity than that. They rushed around the man and hopped on their bikes. Harry dropped his arm-full of shattered bricks and did the same. In seconds they were pedaling away from the abomination with all the speed they could muster.
“Holy shit,” Jack said. He still gripped the empty gun in the same fist with which he held the handlebar. “What was that?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Just what the fuck is the Guild up to?” Stevrin said. “Quakes, missing people, yellow mists. Now Returners that don’t die ...” None of the boys had an answer. He glanced back over his shoulder.