Deadtown d-3 Read online

  After Kane had gone, I turned to Hagopian. “Has there been an autopsy yet?”

  She shook her head. “Next week, maybe.”

  “Uh-uh. Make it today. The sooner the better. And have someone there to perform an exorcism.”

  “Exorcism? You mean, like, a priest?”

  “Sure, a priest will do.” Like the priest Aunt Mab had called to banish Difethwr’s filth from my father’s corpse. She’d told me about it, later. “So would a sorcerer or a witch, even. Somebody who knows how to undo a demonic possession.”

  “What’s the point?” Costello asked. “The victim’s dead.”

  “His body’s dead. But his soul is burning.” Even dead, poor George was in agony while we sat around talking. “You need to have someone exorcise the Hellion when the medical examiner cuts open the body. I’m not joking about this. If you don’t, George’s soul will keep burning and burning until it’s completely destroyed.”

  Hagopian nodded, doing her scared-owl blink again.

  “Before sundown today,” I added. “You don’t have long. George doesn’t have long.”

  Unexpectedly, Costello caught my hand, pressing it in both of his and regarding me with urgent sincerity. God, those eyes were gorgeous. “We’ll take care of it. I promise.”

  “Make sure you do. The utter destruction of a human soul is an unspeakable thing.”

  He nodded, his gaze holding mine.

  “Also,” he said, “I just want to let you know that I’m sorry—personally sorry—for authorizing the Goons to bring you here. Next time . . .” He paused, and I wondered if he meant the pause to be meaningful. “Next time, I’ll call.”

  “I’m in the book,” I said, wondering why my face suddenly felt hot.

  IT WAS TWELVE THIRTY BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO MY apartment. Juliet was awake. A vampire her age needs only a few hours of sleep each day. She reclined on the living room sofa with blackout shades down to block all sunlight, and was filing her nails. Sharpeningwould be a better word. Each finger looked like a lethal weapon.

  “You had two phone calls.” She put down the file and held out a slip of paper.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking it.

  She waved dismissively, her scarlet nails streaking the air. “If I’m going to play secretary, I’m going to start demanding a living wage.” She laughed, tilting her head back and showing her fangs. “That’s funny, isn’t it? A vampire getting a living wage. I should’ve said an undead wage.”

  I smacked my forehead. In all my life, I’d never met a vampire who could tell a joke. “If you don’t want to take my calls, let voice mail pick up.”

  Juliet went back to filing her nails. “Where were you, anyway?”

  I told her about the morning’s events. She was outraged. Not on my behalf, of course—vampires are the most self-centered creatures in the universe—but because the Goon Squad had busted down our door.

  “They broke in while I was asleep!” she fumed. To be fair, it was a serious issue. When vampires sleep, they’re dead to the world, or, as Juliet puts it, they “resume the shroud.” So a sleeping vampire is helpless. “That’s intolerable! Absolutely intolerable. I’m taking this to Hadrian.”

  Hadrian represented the vampire contingent on the Council of Three, which governed Deadtown. Besides Hadrian, the Council consisted of one werewolf and one zombie, but everyone knew that Hadrian pulled all the strings. When it comes to being manipulative, you can’t beat vampires—even if they’d never make it in stand-up comedy.

  I had my doubts, though, that even Hadrian could do much. The Goons worked for Boston PD. And the Council of Three had zero power beyond the narrow boundaries of Deadtown. The only reason the humans gave the Council any authority at all was in the hope that somebody else would keep the monsters under control. If the Goon Squad wanted to break down a vampire’s door in broad daylight, the Goon Squad would do it. The Council could protest all night and all day, but no norm would care. Besides, Hadrian was smart enough to choose his battles.

  While Juliet stormed off to call Hadrian, I looked at my messages. Both calls were from potential clients. Good. Business had been a little slow lately, and the Jag needed a checkup. She’d been making this whiny noise I didn’t like.

  The first message had dollar signs written all over it. It was a reminder about my appointment with Frank Lucado that afternoon. Lucado was well known in Boston; he was a real estate developer with a shady reputation who’d been indicted a couple of times but never convicted of anything. Guys like that—lots of money, lots of enemies—were frequent targets of Harpy attacks. Some tough-guy wannabe trying to horn in on their action would pay a sorcerer big bucks to conjure up a few Harpies for nightly visits. I checked my watch. I had forty-five minutes before the one thirty appointment. Just enough time to return the other call.

  The other caller’s name—Sheila Gravett—also sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I had a feeling I’d seen the name Gravett in the paper recently, but for what I didn’t know.

  Down the hall, Juliet swore and slammed a door, so I figured the phone was free. I dialed Gravett’s number.

  She answered on the third ring. “Dr. Gravett.” Doctor, huh? Good—she could afford me. I never did pro bono work. A girl had to make a living, after all.

  “Hello, Doctor. This is Victory Vaughn returning your call.”

  A gasp came over the line. “Oh, hello. Oh, I’m so glad you called.” Her voice rose in pitch, breathless, like she was the winning caller on a radio show.

  “Why don’t you start off by telling me a little about your problem? Once I know what kind of infestation you’re dealing with, we can work out a strategy for getting rid of them.”

  “Getting rid of what?”

  “Your demons.” Silence. “You called about demon extermination, right?”

  “Demon—? Oh, no.” She laughed, a trill that started high and tripped down the scale. “No, Ms. Vaughn, that’s not why I called. Although I do want to hire you.”

  “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain. I’m a research scientist.” She stopped there, as though that actually explained something.

  “That’s great, but I still don’t see—”

  “I’m the principal researcher at Gravett Biotech. We specialize in paranormal biology. And we’re very interested in mapping the shapeshifter genome. In fact, you may have heard of our work with werewolf DNA.”

  “I’m not a werewolf, Dr. Gravett. I’m Cerddorion. It’s not the same at all.” I sighed. I got so tired of giving this lecture. “Werewolves become wolves—they can’t change into any other animal—and when the moon is full, they have no choice. They have to change. Cerddorion can shift up to three times per lunar cycle, whatever the moon phase, and we can shift into any kind of sentient being. We can choose to shift, or sometimes very strong emotion can force a shift. So, if you’re studying werewolves, you don’t want me.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that.” Her voice sharpened, its tone suggesting that Dr. Gravett was notone to suffer fools gladly. “Werewolf biology is becoming better understood each year. But shapeshifter biology—that field’s wide open. You’re the only active shapeshifter in the state. If Gravett Biotech can unlock the secrets of your DNA . . .” Her voice trailed off, as though the possibility were too wonderful to describe.

  I finished her sentence for her. “You’d get damn rich. Off me.”

  Now I remembered where I’d heard of Gravett Biotech. They’d tried to clone a werewolf. The story had been reported very differently, depending on whether you followed the human press or the PA press. Norms tended to view the research as key to understanding—read controlling—the monsters. PAs saw the experiments (which had been conducted in New Hampshire, a state where PAs had no legal rights) as abuse, plain and simple. Whichever way you spun the story, though, it was clear that Gravett Biotech had created an abomination—a weak, incompletely shifted, hairless thing that was about the size of a Chihuahua and st
ayed stuck between canine and human forms. The poor creature had survived less than a week. No way I’d let that lab get hold of one speck of my genetic material.

  She was still talking, going on about science and the pursuit of knowledge and the greater good and all kinds of other crap. Her voice rose with enthusiasm. “This is such a wonderful opportunity for me—well, I mean for science, you know. If we can understand what you are—”

  “I understand what I am just fine. I don’t need a bunch of sadists in white coats to tell me that.”

  She drew in a sharp breath and, for the first time in our conversation, didn’t seem to know what to say. I smiled into the phone.

  “Was that all, Dr. Gravett? Because I’m not interested.”

  “Wait!” Her voice sounded panicked. “You haven’t heard me out yet. We’re prepared to offer comfortable lodgings and substantial compensation if you’ll agree to change shape under controlled circumstances in our lab.”

  “Where’s the lab?”

  “Not far. About an hour north of Boston.”

  “Oh, you mean in New Hampshire? No, thanks.”

  “All right, yes, it is in New Hampshire, but we’ll guarantee—”

  “I told you, no, thanks.”

  “Sixty thousand dollars, Ms. Vaughn. For one month of observation. And one half of one percent of any profits on patents that stem directly from this research. You can’t earn that kind of money as a freelance demon exterminator.”

  That was true. Sixty thousand dollars in one month worked out to a nice two thousand bucks a day. But I earned my money on my terms. The thought of a bunch of scientists poking and prodding me, coming at me with all kinds of electrodes and needles—I shuddered. I hate needles. I wouldn’t do it.

  “Sorry, Dr. Gravett. I’m not playing lab rat for you or for anyone else.”

  “But—” I didn’t hear the rest of her argument, because I’d already hung up the phone.

  8

  A NAP WOULD’VE FELT LIKE HEAVEN SINCE, THANKS TO THE Goons, I was running on less than three hours’ sleep. But there was no time. I was meeting Frank Lucado at a construction site on Milk Street in twenty minutes. It wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk. So no nap, but I could just about beat the world record for fastest shower. I hopped in, hopped out, and toweled my hair dry. Then I pulled on a fresh pair of black leather jeans and a red turtleneck. Add a new pair of pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled black patent leather boots, and I was the poster girl for kick-ass demon killers. Lucado would hire me in a second.

  Or so I hoped, anyway. I grabbed my black leather jacket and raced out the door.

  A few minutes later, I was there—and right on time. I stood in front of a half-built office building, a couple of blocks past the point where the New Combat Zone gives way to human-controlled Boston. A plywood wall surrounded the site, repeating the name LUCADO CONSTRUCTION, INC. every ten feet or so, interspersed among warnings that you were about to enter a hard-hat site and counts of how many days the site had been accident-free. Ninety-four so far. Not bad. I stepped inside the gate and looked around. I didn’t see anyone, but saws buzzed and hammers banged somewhere inside.

  “Hey!” said a voice right behind me, so close it made me jump. “This is a construction site. Filene’s is that way.”

  I turned to see a big-bellied guy in a dirty T-shirt and a yellow hard hat, pointing west. I didn’t bother to let him know that Filene’s had been bought by Macy’s a few years back. Or that the old Filene’s building was now in the middle of Deadtown.

  The guy dropped his arm and looked me up and down with the kind of leer only a construction worker can give. If they have a leering class in construction-worker school, this guy had aced it, for sure. He licked his lips and said, “Hey, if you wanna come back later, I get off at five.”

  “As tempting as that offer is”—I smiled sweetly—“I’d rather eat nails.” That got a surprised laugh out of him. I went on before he could tell me I was “feisty.” “I have an appointment with Mr. Lucado.”

  “You’re here to see Frank? Jeez, why didn’t you say so? Hang on a minute and I’ll take you to him.”

  He turned and walked into the trailer that served as the site office, treating me to a view of the gap between his T-shirt and his too-low jeans, which were dragged down by his tool belt. The gap stopped short of his butt crack. Thank heaven for small mercies.

  When he returned, he was carrying a hard hat. A fluorescent orange one. “Here.” He held it out to me. “Can’t let you on the site without one.”

  “Thanks, um . . .”

  “Everyone calls me Buddy.”

  “Thanks, Buddy.” I put the hideous orange hat on, and it promptly tipped forward over my eyes.

  “Hey,” said Buddy. “You’re all set for Halloween. Orange and black. You look just like the Great Pumpkin.”

  “It’s too big. Don’t you have something smaller?”

  “Nah, it’ll do. You’re just gonna talk to Frank, right?”

  Yeah, I thought. Looking like the Great Pumpkin. So much for the demon-killer poster girl.

  Buddy led the way to an elevator. As we went deeper into the building, the construction sounds intensified. Country music blared from a radio somewhere, and voices occasionally shouted over the din. Scraps of wood and other debris littered the floor. The air smelled like sawdust and oil.

  We got out on the tenth floor and walked into a huge open space partitioned here and there by hanging plastic sheets. The noises were louder up here. Buddy pointed toward a group of men about forty feet away. “That’s Frank,” he said, “in the brown suit. I gotta go back downstairs.” He pressed the button for the elevator.

  I started toward the man he’d pointed out, but Buddy grabbed my arm. “You ever meet Frank before?”

  “No. We’ve spoken on the phone.”

  The elevator door opened, and Buddy stepped inside. “Don’t let him scare you,” he said and winked. The door closed.

  I laughed. Big, gallant Buddy, worried I’d be afraid of some businessman. Me, who dated a werewolf, shared an apartment with a vampire, and went demon hunting six nights a week. Like I couldn’t handle a human real estate developer. Even one with a reputation for a shady deal or two.

  I started across the open space to where the men stood. The one in the brown suit, Lucado, had his back to me. He was medium height, a slight stoop to his shoulders. Four other men huddled around him, all wearing hard hats (not a fluorescent orange one among them, I noticed) and reading blueprints. Lucado gestured and pointed, then shook his head.

  The damn hard hat kept sliding down over my eyes. Trying to watch Lucado and adjust the hat at the same time, I tripped over some tool left lying on the floor. I sprawled forward, landing on my stomach with an oof! and getting the wind knocked out of me. The hat flew off and rolled away. I lay there motionless, trying to get some air back into my lungs.

  A pair of shiny brown wingtips appeared in my field of vision, followed by a hand. I batted the hand aside—I was not going to begin this interview being helped to my feet by a potential client—and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. My breath came back in a whoosh, and for a minute I just stayed there, gulping in air, head hanging down, grateful I’d remembered how to breathe. The brown wingtips never moved.

  I made it to my feet, squared my shoulders, and looked into the most terrifying face I’d ever seen—on a human, anyway. Victory, meet Frank Lucado.

  He had the face of a man who’d stared down violence and ended in a draw. It was the scar. A meaty red streak slashed his face in two, running from his right eyebrow across a milky, sightless eye to the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. Some men would’ve worn an eye patch to hide the bad eye. Not this guy. He was looking at me with a smug amusement that showed he thought he’d already won—whatever our battle would turn out to be—before we even exchanged names. I could tell that he used his scar as a weapon, to keep opponents off balance.

  “Mr. Lucado?” I extended my hand. “I’m Vict
ory Vaughn.”

  “You? You’re—?” He threw back his head and laughed. He picked up the orange hard hat and put it on my head, patting the top twice like I was a cute little kindergartner. The damn thing promptly tilted over my forehead. “You’re the demon killer? You gotta be kidding me. Honey, my demons would eat you alive.” He started walking back to the group of men.

  Jerk. I pushed the hat as far back as I could without having it fall off my head. “I made the time to come out here,” I said. “The least you could do is shake my hand.”

  He stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder. “You wanna shake hands?” He shrugged. Then he turned around, strode back, and grasped my right hand. He squeezed it hard; he was trying to make it hurt. But I squeezed harder.

  This asshole was notgoing to dismiss me as a clumsy little girl. I poured all my shapeshifter strength into my grip. Lucado’s eyes widened, then bulged. He tried to pull his hand away, but I wouldn’t let go. My fingers tightened around the delicate bones of his hand. Just a little more pressure and I’d crush them. My arm started to tingle, then burn, and I thrilled in my power over this norm. The urge grew to crush, to snap, to pulverize his hand into a mess of smashed flesh and bone. I could do it. I could destroy his hand, and then I could kill him. The thought made me laugh. My forearm felt like it was on fire, blazing with strength. Lucado squeaked out a strangled whimper, and I glanced at the group of men. They still studied the blueprints. Yes, I could do it, I thought. I could kill this jerk. He was mean and weak and pathetic. Who needed him?

  A rumble of laughter rolled through my thoughts. I knew that sound—the laugh of the Destroyer. I flashed on a vision of its hideous blue face, triumph in its eyes.

  My God, I was letting the mark take over. No, I thought, that’s not me. I willed the vision away, blocked my ears to Difethwr’s laughter, forced down the urge to destroy. My arm flared with pain, but I pushed past the feeling. Fighting the demon essence, I held myself on just this side of crushing the man’s hand, until the impulse to annihilate began to subside. Then I made myself relax each finger, one by one. Lucado snatched his hand away.