Deadtown (27 page)

“Thanks,” I said, reaching for the paper.

He let me take it, then turned back to the elevator and stabbed at the button. Then he must’ve had second thoughts about standing with his back to me, because he yanked open the stairwell door and disappeared inside.

I resumed my post by Frank’s door, unfolded the paper, and scanned the headlines.

I was relieved to see that the Creature Comforts brawl had moved off the front page. Today, the top story was about a teenage boy who’d shot his girlfriend’s parents to death because they wouldn’t let her go to a motel with him.

And they say the monsters are heartless killers.

The Opinion section featured competing columns by Governor Sugden and Seth Baldwin, commenting on the Creature Comforts fight and laying out their positions on Paranormal Americans. Baldwin repeated the rant I’d seen on TV, vowing to drive out the monsters if he was elected. Sugden took a milder approach. Kane liked Sugden, as a politician and a person. Sugden’s daughter had been zombified in the plague, so he had a personal stake in making sure the zombies were treated right. More than that, though, the governor saw PA rights as a civil rights issue, just like Kane did, believing that the monsters were intelligent beings who could contribute to society. I’d vote for the guy—except, of course, as a PA I couldn’t vote.

Leafing through the paper, I saw nothing about a bloodthirsty panther on the loose. Nothing about a man having been mysteriously killed in South Boston. Good. I was starting to believe that maybe I really
hadn’t
killed that thug. Not that he deserved to get away, but still. I’d prefer not to add “murderer” to my résumé this week.

It bothered me that my usual self—my personality, the part of me I thought of as
me
—had lost control of my animal self. Could I, Vicky, really disappear that completely? I flipped through the pages of the newspaper, reading financial news, the advice column, sports scores, even the classifieds, not wanting to face the question that pushed at me from the edges of my mind: Was Difethwr’s closeness boosting the demon essence inside me, infecting me like a virus—not with a disease, but with the urge to kill?

It was, damn it. As soon as I let myself ask the question, I knew the answer. I could hold back—barely—if the mark flared up when I was just me. When I’d shifted, though, there’d been no such restraint. None at all. Maybe keeping a shift in reserve for when I fought Difethwr wasn’t such a great idea after all. I could no longer trust myself in a different form.

What the hell was I doing reading the lost and found ads? I folded the newspaper and tossed it to one side. I had to practice. Now. I had to be so ready to fight that Hellion that its mark on me wouldn’t matter. And I had to be ready to fight the thing as me, as Victory Vaughn, Cerddorion demon slayer and avenger of my father.

Hefting my broadsword in my left hand, I went through the first routine Aunt Mab had taught me. Cut, parry, thrust; cut, parry, thrust. The sword felt heavy, and my movements were awkward. I let my right arm dangle by my side; I couldn’t even trust it to help me with balance. The thick carpet absorbed any noise I made as I danced up and down the hallway. Within twenty minutes, my arm ached. Within half an hour, my muscles trembled uncontrollably. But I kept going. When I felt I’d made progress with the first routine, I moved on to the second, then the third. I didn’t quit until the window at the end of the hall lightened enough to chase all the demons back into the shadows.

I put my sword away and sat on the floor again, leaning back against Lucado’s door to wait. Frank and I still had a thing or two to discuss.

 

 

ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER, I HEARD THE LOCK CLICK BEHIND me. I sat where I was, lifting Frank’s paper above my head like the Statue of Liberty raising her torch.

The door opened. I heard a stifled curse. Then the paper disappeared from my hand.

“You’re still fired.” He shut the door.

I got up and rang the bell. No response. I rang it again. And again. And again. And—

The door flew open. Lucado stood there in a blue and burgundy silk bathrobe, looking like he hadn’t had his coffee yet.
“What?!”

“You can’t fire me, Frank. I’m not your employee. I work for myself, remember?”

He snorted. “Whatever. The bottom line is you’re gone. And I ain’t paying you for last night, neither.”

He started to close the door again, but this time I pushed back. After a second of tension, he gave way. The door opened wide.

“Hell,” he said. He turned and went into the kitchen. Smelling coffee, I followed him. Lucado stood with his back to me, pouring the steaming brew into a mug.

“So, Frank,” I said, leaning against the granite counter, “anything nasty show up last night?”

He turned, glared at me, and sat down at the kitchen table. “Just you. How’d you get in, anyway?”

I shrugged.

He stared at me, running his finger along his scar. Then he jumped up and ran over to a phone on the wall. He punched in a few numbers, listened for a second, then hung up without speaking.

“Rosie’s still at the desk. Jesus, for a minute I thought you’d scared him off, too.”

“Rosie? Do all your bodyguards have girls’ names?”

“Yeah. All of ’em except you. And, as we both already agreed, you don’t work for me. So why the hell are you in my kitchen?”

I strolled over to the coffeemaker and opened cupboards until I found a mug. I filled the mug with coffee, inhaling deeply. Took a sip. Mmm. Frank bought the good stuff.

I turned to him. “I’m trying to track down the demon that was here the other night. Not the Harpies I killed; the big one. The Hellion. I think it’ll be back.”

Lucado swigged his coffee and waved dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. The big bad demon. The one I ain’t never seen. You know what I figure? I figure you and Wendy cooked up that story between the two of you to extort money out of me. After I’ve paid you a bundle, you’ll give me another damn sleeping pill. Next morning, you’ll say, ‘Good for me, Frankie. I killed the demon. Thanks for the dough.’ Only you won’t have killed anything, ’cause there wasn’t no Hellcat in the first place.”

“Hellion.”

“Huh?”

“The demon is a Hellion, not a Hellcat.”

“What’s it matter what I call it? It doesn’t exist.”

“Interesting theory.” I sipped at my coffee. Lucado looked gratified, like I’d admitted he was right. “Only one problem with it.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“You’re paying me by the day. If I was going to rip you off by protecting you from an imaginary demon, I’d show up the first night, wouldn’t I? And a whole lot more nights after that.” I slammed the mug down on the counter. Lucado jumped. Coffee splashed on my hand. “Did it ever occur to you that it’s
costing
me money to protect you? You know how much I get for a Harpy extermination—you paid me for one.” I’d overcharged him, but he didn’t know that. “While I’m working for you, I’m losing clients.”

Lucado didn’t answer. I could see him thinking it over. Money was something he understood.

I decided to take advantage of his silence. “Besides, you never asked why I was late last night. Maybe I had a good excuse.”

He lifted his chin, and his thoughtful expression switched to skepticism. “Yeah? Like what?”

I told him all about yesterday’s kidnapping attempt. Well, okay, not
all
about it—I skipped the parts where I almost ate a guy and slunk home in a garbage bag. Lucado listened, stone-faced. When I’d finished, he shook his head.

“You expect me to believe a word of that crap?” He checked his watch. “I gotta get dressed. I want you out of here before I leave for work.”

“I know it sounds far-fetched—”

“Far-fetched? Honey, you must’ve gone to Jupiter and back to fetch that story.” He stood. “Out. Now.”

Shit. Difethwr hadn’t attacked last night, but I knew it would return soon. It was locked on to Lucado; I could feel it. Lucado would be dead, and I’d be responsible for another Hellion victim. I couldn’t let that happen.

“You deaf or something? I said get out.” He pointed. “Door’s that way.”

“Wait—don’t you see? Somebody wants me out of the way so he can kill you.” It wasn’t exactly Kane’s plan—Kane only wanted to keep me out of the way until someone
else
knocked Lucado off—but it was close enough. And it got Lucado’s attention.

“You’ve got enemies, right?” He didn’t answer, but at least he didn’t argue. “I mean, it’s obvious. Someone conjured those Harpies to attack you.” He was listening now, stroking his scar.

“I killed the Harpies, and I chased the Hellion away.” Okay, so that part wasn’t strictly true, either. But I needed Lucado to believe I could protect him. “I’m the only one who can look out for you, Frank, and that Hellion knows it. If you want to be free of demons, really free, I’m your only chance.”

“So you’re saying this Hellcat—Hellion, whatever—didn’t show up last night because the grab went south. With you still running around, they didn’t want to take a chance on sending the demon.” He paused, thinking. I could practically see those wheels turning behind his eyes. His good eye, anyway. “Okay, Vaughn. I’ll give you another try. You don’t show up, though, don’t bother pushing your way into my kitchen tomorrow morning.”

He put his coffee mug in the sink, then turned to me, puzzled. “How
did
you get in?”

“I, um, might have broken that glass door to the garage. A little bit.”

He scowled. “That’s coming out of your pay.” The phone rang, and he crossed the kitchen. “And I still ain’t paying you for last night.” He picked up the phone. “What?”

His demeanor changed, became almost deferential. “Oh, hi. Yes . . . Yes, I know. But I’m having a discussion with my new bodyguard . . . Yeah, the one I told you about.” He looked up, scowled at me, and waved his hand to shoo me out of the room.

I left, letting the door swing shut behind me. No sense in annoying my client, now that he was my client again. I sat by the door, in Wendy’s chair, and waited. A few minutes later, Lucado came out of the kitchen and went upstairs. A few minutes after that, he came downstairs dressed in a dark olive suit with a beige shirt and a green-and-brown-striped tie.

“Come on,” he said. “Limo’s waiting.”

 

 

I COULD GET USED TO THIS, I THOUGHT, SINKING INTO THE leather seat. “You can drop me off at Milk Street again,” I said.

“Uh-uh. You still owe me a couple hours’ work, seeing as you were so late last night.”

“You said you weren’t paying me for last night.”

“If you can manage to keep from annoying me for the next hour—which I doubt—I’ll forget I said that. I’ll forget about the door you smashed, too.”

One hour for all that? I’d be on my best behavior.

“So where are we going?” I asked, settling back in my seat.

“Out for breakfast. Ain’t you hungry?”

“I had coffee back at your place. That’s plenty of breakfast for me.”

“Humor me.” Lucado looked out the window, making it clear that the discussion was over.

It was early, about seven fifteen, but there was a lot of traffic. The limo sat behind a double-parked delivery truck while the truck driver stacked boxes on a dolly and rolled them around the corner into an alley. We were on a one-way street, cars parked on both sides, so there wasn’t enough room to ease past the truck.

Frank leaned forward, knocked on the partition between us and the driver, and then saw that there wasn’t a damn thing the driver could do. “Never mind,” he growled, then sat back hard, huffing. He looked out the window, drumming his fingers on his knee.

When the truck driver reappeared, wheeling an empty dolly and with his clipboard tucked under his arm, Lucado pressed a button and his window glided open.

“Hey, asshole! Think you own the street or sumthin’?”

The deliveryman gave him the finger, then climbed into his truck, whistling.

“How do you like that?” Lucado said. “Guy’s mother never taught him any damn manners.”

Once the truck started moving, we inched forward, although pedestrians were easily passing us. When we’d moved up half the block, I could see why the parking was so tight here. News vans lined the street; one was parked on the sidewalk. We turned the corner and stopped in front of the Liberty Diner. Even from the limo, I could see that the reporters from all those vans were packed inside.

“This is the place,” Frank said.

I stared at him. “In there? With all those reporters?” I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Not me.”

He scowled, turning his head so the scar dominated his face. The guy had a hell of a scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s someone in there wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I can see that—about a dozen reporters. I’m not being interviewed. I wouldn’t do it for Kane, and I sure as hell won’t do it for you.”

I sounded angry, but inside I was panicking. What if Lucado tried to drag me out of the limo? He wouldn’t win, but we’d make a lot of noise, and reporters would come running. Wouldn’t Kane love seeing that on today’s news? Lucado trying to haul me ass-first out of a limo? I braced myself.

But instead of arguing, Lucado started to laugh. “What makes you think those reporters want to talk to you?”

I must have looked flabbergasted, because he laughed harder. He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief.

“Didn’t you see me on CNN yesterday?”

“What, that freak show in the Zone? Honey, that’s yesterday’s news.” He wiped his eyes again, then stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “The reporters ain’t here for you; they’re here for the guy inside, the guy who wants to talk to you.”

“Who’s that?”

“Aw, now you wanna ruin my surprise. Okay, okay. It’s Seth Baldwin, our next governor.”

Baldwin? Oh, my God. I’d rather have a nice little chat with Difethwr. The only thing Kane would hate more than seeing me getting out of a limo with Lucado would be seeing me cozy up to his idea of the Antichrist over a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage.