by White, Gwynn
Before he could so much as process her statement, let alone answer it, the elevator doors closed in his face. The intrusion gave him several uninterrupted moments to consider her statement. Chief among those thoughts? That perhaps he had been wrong about Sinnestra.
Perhaps they had shared a moment, after all.
3
Hank Smiley had a complicated relationship with Tanglereave. It was a strange and distorted district, one the strigs were all too happy to maintain if it meant discouraging wights from making their presence felt. All the dimensions were off-kilter, a weird and unnerving, almost vertigo-inducing alignment for the uninitiated. Rather than streets, Tanglereave was serviced by a labyrinthine network of alleys and passages that were far too narrow for all but the slimmest of vehicles and foot traffic. That meant no roadsters or cruisers, and certainly none of the heavier vehicles used by PWD’s Special Weapons and Tactics division. Worse, many of the passages dead-ended or double-backed on themselves, making it virtually impossible for the uninitiated to navigate. Hank was one of the few wights who knew his way around by feel alone. Still, even at the best of times he found the whole aesthetic strange and unnerving.
Despite all that, Hank couldn’t help but sympathize with the vamps and their predicament. Tanglereave had begun as a kind of refugee camp for displaced vamps after they had been disgorged from the portal. The strigoi shantytown soon became a permanent fixture. Permanent fixtures needed patrols, order, authority. Hank was a young PWD officer at the time, low on the totem pole. Who better to stick with a detail no one else wanted?
Hank took the post. Not that he had much say in the matter. He soon found it wasn’t as bad as it was cracked up to be, though. The vamps were just trying to get by, the majority of them, anyway. To hear them tell it, many of their ancestors had been conscripted and forced to go through the portal. Sure, that could have just as likely been the ultimate case of revisionist history, but Hank figured that, either way, there was no going back now. For any of them.
Hank only worked the beat for a few years, but it was the beginning of a long entanglement with the Reave. He struck up a friendship with a young vamp aristocrat who wanted only peace for his people. Peace, and a place at the table.
No surprise, then, that when Erastes Ensanguine ascended to his people’s throne, Hank was one of the few wights to reach out and congratulate him. Now, he could only hope their long-standing relationship was enough to mean something for Meridia when it mattered most.
At the center of that coiled, confusing nest known as Tanglereave stood his destination: a preposterously tall and angled tower, its improbable rise seemingly in defiance of all known physics. The tower had a crooked, gnarled quality, standing like a crudely accusing finger aimed at the inert portal above.
A heavy morning mist was forming over the city by the time Hank pulled to a stop in the underground parking garage beneath the tower. They had a tendency to roll in quickly, those mists. By the time Hank reached the top of the tower, he could barely see the outline of Silverbreak Keep in the distance. Cato was in there somewhere, hashing it out with Gragos Cairn and the rest of the Gargoyle Gjunta.
Yeah, Hank would take the strigs and their eccentricities any day of the week.
As if to prove his point entirely, Hank arrived to find Erastes Ensanguine in the middle of composing his own original opera. His wings—a rare gift even among the vampire royalty—were at their full midget span, shuddering like leaves in the breeze with each and every screeching note he squeezed out of the strangely proportioned collapsible box between his hands. Erastes had given Hank to understand that it was a relic, a long forgotten human instrument. An ‘accordion,’ he had called it, but Hank couldn’t imagine humans, any humans, producing an instrument capable of such an ear-violating sound absent some compelling, perhaps otherworldly force.
The last of the strangled notes died away, and Erastes offered a courtly bow to his guest. “Hank Smiley—what a pleasant surprise. I was not expecting an audience, let alone one so distinguished among my people.”
“And I wasn’t expecting a performance. That was… intriguing.”
“Thank you, my friend. Someone needs to tell the story of my people,” Erastes said, setting the box of horrors aside, much to Hank’s relief. “Who better than I?”
“Who better, indeed.”
“There is a verse about you.”
Hank furrowed his brow, at once flattered and somewhat horrified. Hopefully he was showing more of the former than the latter. “Well, that’s something. Never been immortalized in song before. It’s a good one, I hope.”
“As if I could speak or sing unkindly of you.”
“Kind of you to say, but I was just doing my duty.”
“You alone stood against a mob of your fellow wights determined to slaughter my people where they lived and slept and worshipped.”
“Like I said, just doing—”
“Yes, yes,” Erastes said, smiling gamely. “On this point, we shall have to agree to disagree. Please, sit, sit. What brings you to my humble roost?”
“I just had a couple of questions, is all.” Hank took the offered seat obligingly. “For starters, how’s business?”
“Business continues unabated.”
“Good, good. Anything going on I should know about?”
“Come now, Hank. I shall never forget how you interceded on my peoples’ behalf during the Nothnocti Wars, but that does not mean I can read you into every aspect of my dealings. Some things are still sacred, after all, are they not?”
“Hey, this is for your benefit as much as mine. If I know something’s coming down the pike in advance, I can smooth the way. You know how these things work.”
Erastes chuckled, inclining his head forward over tented fingers. “Indeed, I do, which is why I also know this is no ordinary visit. Perhaps you will indulge me in a game of blinders if it is to be a long one?”
They played three games. Hank lost the first, won the second, and was in the midst of an impressive rally to secure the third.
“A most interesting strategy,” Erastes said. “You’ve been practicing.”
“Not really.”
“Innate talent, then. Impressive!”
“If you say so.”
The match continued for several more minutes before Erastes sprung a trap that routed Hank’s rally. He hadn’t even seen the move coming… precisely why the game was called blinders.
“You are preoccupied, my friend,” Erastes said as he mopped up the rest of Hank’s attempted rally. “Clearly, this is not a social or even a typical business visit.”
Hank nodded, watching his last chance at victory slip away. “You’ve heard about Hezekiel Stone, I’m sure.”
“Of course, of course. Tragic for his people, no doubt.” At that, Erastes leaned forward conspicuously. “That still does not explain why you are here, though, Hank.”
“Doesn’t it, though?”
Erastes sighed as he packed up the board and pieces into an ornately carved box, then placed the box into a velvet pouch and spirited it away. “Old stereotypes made new. Here we are again, yes? My people have no quarrel with the gargoyles, Hank. We keep to ourselves and deal with them when need be, which is not often. How is that so hard to comprehend?”
Hank had to admit that Erastes had a point. Still, it didn’t add up. There was a vital piece hiding somewhere, and neither he nor Cato had been able to produce it yet. “Could you just keep your ear to the ground for me? I’m not trying to be insulting, but maybe everyone in your organization isn’t as clean as you think.”
“Of course, Hank. We’re a bit overdue for a fresh round of background checks, anyway. Can’t be too careful, right?”
“Right.”
“As a question, though—”
“Go for it.”
“Where, pray tell, did you get your intel?”
Suddenly, Hank realized how flimsy the pretext that had brought him here really was. “It came from Cato.
The fleeks, specifically.”
Erastes stifled an amused laugh. “And you believe those monstrosities?”
“Not necessarily, but Cato puts stock in what they have to say.”
“Ah, yes, Spector Cato. Your ‘partner’.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that he seems to think himself more the employer than an equal partner in your relationship.”
“It’s not like that. He’s got the experience and seniority. Plus, he and Zobbles gave me a second chance.”
“A second chance you never needed when you worked in Tanglereave.”
“I needed it with my own people, Erastes. You know that.”
“Funny how that chance only came for you when it was a foregone conclusion that the case involved the strigoi community.”
“We see it two different ways. From my point of view, my expertise helped put away someone you should have been eager to disavow from your community.”
“A point we still debate to this day.”
“And, apparently, the only one we’ll agree on while I’m here.” Hank stood, overcoat swooshing behind him as he moved to collect his hat. The mood had soured that quickly.
“Before you go… what do you see in him, Hank?”
He should have taken the hat and gone, he knew. Instead, hand hovering over it, Hank dipped his chin and said, “Someone’s name has to come first on the shingle, Erastes. That’s how it’s always been. He takes the lead and I keep him in check. It works for us.”
“As you say.”
“I do.” And, with that simple exchange, the animosity seemed almost to moot itself. His hand fell away from the hat, and Hank strode back to take his place across the table from Erastes. “Now, back to the fleeks. The one Cato spoke with said that Hezekiel Stone’s assassins were Steelskin Slayers.”
“Well, there you have it. Clearly, the creature was lying.”
“Why would it do that?”
“Do you expect me to give reason to the actions of a mindless creature? I think perhaps I should be offended, Hank.”
“Come on, Erastes. It’s a simple question.”
“One that comes with a simple answer: the Steelskin Slayers are no more. My second-in-command oversaw their dismantling at my order.”
“Is that still Kaboc Melo?”
“The very same.”
“I’d like to speak with him. Is he available?”
“Unfortunately, not at this time, no.”
Hank lifted a brow, the significance of the gesture speaking for itself.
“Oh, come now. Is it my fault a murder was committed on the same day that my second oversees the tax collection?”
“Murders. Plural.”
“Pardon?”
“You said ‘a murder.’ Hezekiel Stone was one of several murdered.”
“Yes, of course.”
“That said, we’re not exactly talking about a normal murder, are we?”
“No, I suppose we are not,” Erastes allowed. “But we are talking about a normal collection day for my people. Kaboc has been overseeing the delivery of our cut for many hours now, since well before news of the murders broke. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of witnesses willing to tell you all about how unfair the rates have become in recent cycles. I’m also sure that, while there are many mourning the loss of Hezekiel Stone, you will find few of them residing within the Reave.”
“Points taken.”
“Please do not think me unsympathetic to your cause, Hank. That’s just the way it works in our respective spheres.”
“Fair enough. But unless someone proves the Steelskins weren’t involved, there’s a very good chance that my people are going to be investigating the aftermath of something far worse. That’s just how it works in my sphere.”
“So, my people are to be the subject of reprisal, perhaps even war, because we cannot prove an absence of guilt? Where is the justice in that?”
“Who said anything about justice? Cato and I, Mayor Zobbles—we’re all just trying to keep the peace.”
At that, Erastes deployed a bloodcurdling smirk. “Truer words, Spector Smiley. Truer words.”
Hank couldn’t help but notice the sudden shift in Erastes’ tone, especially the switch to his formal title. It was the first time the vampire lord had used it with him since he had entered the room. Taking the hint, he gave the arms of his chair a light slap and stood with a nod to Erastes. “Well, that’s all I needed. Apologies if I offended, but you know I had to ask. Case this high profile and all.”
“Of course. We all have our masters to serve.”
“I’ll show myself out.”
He was nearly to the door when Erastes said, “I am sorry I could not be of more help to you, Hank.”
His hand on the knob, Hank cast a glance back over his shoulder. “Believe it or not, you might have been more helpful than you think.”
“In that case, you are most welcome.”
“You’ll have Kaboc touch base with me first thing once he’s done overseeing the collection, right?”
“Absolutely. First thing.”
Hank had barely closed the door before a muffled screech signaled that Erastes had returned to his composition.
Minutes later, even as Hank put Tanglereave in his rearview mirror, glad to be free of its strange familiarity and funhouse-mirror dimensions once more, he could still hear the deflating shriek of the accordion.
4
To say that Ann Banner was pissed—no, not just pissed, fucking furious—would have been a gross understatement. She was on the warpath, the sound of her footfalls caroming off the halls of power like ricocheting bullets. In her hand she clutched the writ Cato had presented to her at the scene of Hezekiel Stone’s murder, the one with Dolan Zobbles’ distinctive scrawl authorizing the extralegal shakedown.
She wasn’t sure what she intended to do with it yet, only that it would no doubt be something dramatic. Perhaps she would throw it on his desk disdainfully, along with her badge. Perhaps she would force-feed it to him. Perhaps she’d wipe her ass with it; perhaps she would shove it up his.
Either way, she had precious few seconds to decide. Zobbles’ office loomed ahead, his secretary’s desk conspicuously unoccupied. Not that she’d intended to bother with protocol, anyway. She’d been a hell of a doorkicker in her day—still was, when push came to shove—and the time had definitely come to shove back.
She had a bone to pick with Mayor Zobbles, all right. What she hadn’t counted on was that she might not be the only one. Bursting into his office, she was about to light the fuse on a stream of invective primed and ready to go when all at once the scene before her clarified itself: Zobbles, head tilted back, mouth fixed in an ‘O’ of pleasure, fingers laced within the crown of black curls moving up and down atop his lap.
Well, that explained the empty desk outside.
“Damn it, Dolan!” Ann declared, averting her gaze from the awkward frenzy her presence had touched off. “Seriously? In your office?”
“Oh, ahem, yes, that will be all for now, Ms. Brihm,” Dolan said as he hurriedly zipped himself up behind his desk and what little privacy it offered. “I’ll buzz if I need anything else.”
“Of course, sir.”
Ms. Brihm made a beeline for the door, shooting an icy glare at Ann along the way. Could the girl really have been foolish enough to catch feelings for her boss? Oh, well; it wasn’t her heart he would surely break. Then it occurred to Ann that the girl might see her as competition. She nearly busted a gut laughing at the thought, then quickly composed herself. Thankfully, Dolan was in the process of doing the very same.
“Chief of Detectives,” he finally said, his cheeks even rosier than usual. “What an unexpected surprise. Ms. Brihm was just, ah—”
Only when she was sure he was all inside his pants again did Ann look back, folding her arms and offering a mirthless smirk. “Taking dictation? Helping clear your head? Some other clever euphemism?”
&nbs
p; Dolan sighed, apparently accepting the fact that there was no way he could talk her out of believing what she had seen. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Not nearly as much as I should be.” Stepping forward, she intended to toss the crumpled writ at this chest. Instead, it lost flight in midair and landed limply atop the desk. Still, she continued unabated. “What the hell, Dolan? You send your two goons to sandbag me on my own crime scene without even a word of warning?” She braced her hands on his desktop, leaning forward to stare him down as if she were sweating one of her suspects in the box, not addressing the Mayor of Meridia in his posh office. “I didn’t even want this job, but you talked me into it, remember? And now you pull this stunt? So, which is it, Dolan? Do you trust me to do my job—the one you wanted for me—or don’t you? Because if you don’t, you can have my badge back right now. I won’t be your puppet. Do you understand me?”
“First of all, it’s Mayor Zobbles, at least for two more weeks. Second, you have to realize that this is a unique situation. This isn’t just any murder; it’s a potential clusterfuck of monumental proportions. The city is a powder keg primed to go off, and this could well be the thing that does it. This situation is precisely why I empowered the special investigators.”
His reminder was not lost on her. Realizing who she was talking to, Ann slowly sat in one of the two plush chairs available for guests. She heard him out, eyeing him conspicuously as he continued.
“As for Cato, he’s—”
“A hemorrhoid,” she said, finally compelled to interject. “He’s a walking, talking hemorrhoid.”
Dolan met her halfway. “Granted, he’s a pain in the ass. But he and Hank also have the best shot at keeping a lid on this thing until after the election, so I have to let them run with it.”
“This is such bullshit.”
“You think it’s bullshit now? Wait until Gragos Cairn or Erastes Ensanguine is sitting in this chair, and you’ll be up to your eyeballs in it. As it is now, we’re only about hip-deep.”