Deadtown (33 page)

With the Destroyer in Boston, it was up to me to restore the balance of power. Not because I was the best or even all that good. But because I was willing. And because, win or lose, I was the only one who could.

The movie’s big battle scene had some interesting sword techniques I wanted to try. I turned off the TV and moved a couple of chairs to make room. I rolled up the Persian rug, then picked up my falchion. The sword felt good in my hand. My arm felt good, too—stronger, not sore. Concentrating, I played back the sword-fighting scene in my mind, then slowly started to follow the hero’s moves.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lucado’s voice came from the doorway.

“Practicing.” I didn’t even glance at him. That was good; left-handed fighting was going to require absolute focus. “Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll put the furniture back when I’m done.”

“Well, watch what you’re doing, will ya? I’ve got some priceless antiques and shit in there.” He watched me for a second. I could sense him, feel what he was doing on the periphery, but I kept my focus on my moves. “Jesus,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Nighty-night, Frank.”

He grunted.

After I’d had a good workout, I put the sword away. Then, having second thoughts, I took it out again. Better to keep it close by. I was warm from practicing, so I opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony to cool off in the night air. I leaned the sword against the wall and looked out into the night. It was eleven o’clock on a Friday—the night before Halloween—and Bostonians were out and about for the weekend. An almost-full moon shone over the harbor, silvering the water. Sounds of laughter, music, and cars drifted up from the streets. When I looked to the right, I could see the North End’s waterfront, down to Christopher Columbus Park. Couples strolled, hand in hand, on their way home from romantic dinners at cozy Italian restaurants. I sighed. With Kane mad at me and Daniel out of the picture, I didn’t see any romantic dinners in my future any time soon.

Watching the norms, I felt the strangest sensation that someone was watching
me
. It started with goose bumps on my arms, then built to a creepy, prickly feeling along the back of my neck. Gradually, like a movie scene fading in, I realized that I was staring into somebody’s eyes. Somebody who was standing on thin air, nine stories above the ground.

I leaped backward, groping for my sword, and the figure came into focus. Putting my hand on my crazy-beating heart, I let out a sigh of relief. It was only a vampire. Had to be an old one, because they didn’t gain the ability to float or fly until they’d been dead a few centuries. Another minute, and I recognized him.

“Good evening, Councilor Hadrian.”

“You know me.” His dark eyes showed vanity, but not a jot of surprise.

I’d never met Hadrian, but I did know him. Everyone in Deadtown did; he was leader of the Council of Three and top dog among Boston’s vampires. His photo was always on the front page of
News of the Dead
.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Awaiting your invitation.” As everyone knows, vampires can’t cross your threshold unless you invite them in. It’s one of the legends about vampires that’s actually true.

“Gee, I don’t know, Hadrian. This isn’t my condo. Tell you what. I’ll invite you onto the balcony, but not inside.”

“Hardly hospitable. But for now, it will do.” The vampire rose high enough to clear the railing, then slowly, gracefully, alighted in front of me. “Shall we have a seat?” he asked, gesturing toward the patio chairs arranged at the other end of the balcony.

Hadrian believed he was the epitome of civilization. You could see it in the graceful way he sat, smoothing invisible creases from his four-thousand-dollar suit. You could hear in his accent—proper Bostonian tinged with something European—and in the soft modulations of his voice. You could almost taste it, because looking at Hadrian made you think of full-bodied vintage Bordeaux and foods like truffles and escargot, foods you’d always heard about but never tried. Everything about him screamed—no, make that
murmured
—culture.

Only one thing was wrong with this picture. Hadrian ate people.

Well, not anymore; not officially. Now he’d take his legally allowed pint and say thank you and goodnight. But as a three-hundred-year-old vampire, he’d sucked his share of human bodies dry. And I had a feeling that whatever Hadrian wanted, Hadrian took.

He steepled his fingers and smiled that closed-lipped smile vampires favored. His brown eyes seemed to vibrate slightly. They made you want to lean in, look closer, and as you did, something in those eyes reached inside you, all the way down to your toes, and started to tease you out of yourself, slowly drawing you into those liquid depths.

I coughed and sat back, making him blink with surprise. “I’m a demi-human,” I said. “Vampire tricks don’t work on me.”

He smiled again, this time showing a little fang.

“Forgive me—force of habit. After a few centuries of seducing attractive females . . .” He shrugged.

I’d bet his track record was pretty damn good. Hadrian was a little old for me—he looked like he must’ve gone vamp when he was about fifty, fifty-five—but he definitely had that sexy older man thing happening. A touch of gray colored his temples and shot through his neatly trimmed beard. He moved with casual elegance, and he had the kind of long, slim fingers that were made for bringing up goose bumps on naked flesh—

Whoa. Maybe those vampire tricks
half
worked on demi-humans.

I coughed again. “So what’s up?”

“Juliet happened to mention that you were in the employ of my enemy. I wanted to see for myself.”

“Enemy, huh? Good thing I didn’t invite you inside, then, isn’t it?

“That depends on how one defines a ‘good thing.’ ” He smiled again. “I suspect that our definitions regarding the current situation might not mesh.”

“Well, as you can see, yes, I’m working for Lucado. Believe me, I don’t like the jerk any better than you do. But a Hellion came after him, and I’m not letting it get away.” Aunt Mab’s voice echoed in my mind:
You know what to do.
I shivered, then glanced at Hadrian, hoping he hadn’t noticed. If he had, he didn’t let on.

“You know that Lucado has contributed a significant amount of money to Baldwin’s campaign?”

“Yeah, and Kane’s not too thrilled about that.”

“No. I wouldn’t imagine he would be.” He leaned closer. “What I’d like to know is what kind of return our Mr. Lucado is expecting on that investment.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he just doesn’t like PAs. Or maybe it’s you. If you get kicked out of the state, that’s less competition for him.”

Like Lucado, Hadrian was a real estate developer. After the plague, the state had taken control of both the quarantine zone—now Deadtown—and the buffer zone around it. Hadrian was the developer for Deadtown; he’d made a fortune using cheap zombie labor to reconstruct the area, then leasing residences to PAs for high rents. It was a captive market, since PAs weren’t allowed to live anywhere else.

Frank Lucado didn’t employ zombie workers—there was too much paperwork for norms who tried—so he had to pay union wages and carry workers’ comp and unemployment insurance, expenses that would make it hard for him to be competitive if Hadrian was allowed to start bidding on projects outside of Deadtown. And to save money, Governor Sugden had proposed opening up state-financed construction projects to PA-owned companies.

“Yes,” Hadrian agreed, “Lucado would undoubtedly prefer that I not compete with him. He’d lose. Presumably, he’s also expecting to get preferential treatment from Baldwin for government jobs. Has he mentioned anything else?”

Hadrian was smiling, lips closed, as though he were just making pleasant conversation. Vampires rarely made pleasant conversation. He wanted something. “What’s your angle, Hadrian?”

“My angle?” He shrugged, and there was something French about the gesture. “Know thine enemy, I suppose. I want a better understanding of the relationship between Lucado and Baldwin. Something there doesn’t feel right to me. Have you met Baldwin, by any chance?”

I considered lying but didn’t see any reason to. “Briefly.”

“What was your impression?”

“Let’s just say I’m not inviting him over for dinner anytime soon.”

He half smiled. “And what was your impression of the relationship between Baldwin and Lucado?”

“They seemed friendly enough. Lucado joined Baldwin at a campaign event this morning.”

“Yes, I saw that on television. The Liberty Diner, wasn’t it?”

I nodded. Hadrian sat back, stroking his chin as though thinking.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” he said after a few minutes.

“What is?”

“Don’t you find it odd that Baldwin has cultivated a friendship with your boss?”

“He’s not my boss. And why wouldn’t Baldwin want to pal around with him? Lucado’s contributing enough to his campaign.”

“That’s what surprises me, though. Lucado has a . . . shall we say ‘shady’ reputation. Baldwin has no qualms about being seen with him. Doesn’t that strike you as strange in an election as close as this one?”

“Lucado has never been convicted of anything.”

“A moot point. He has the appearance of corruption. He wears it on his face. Yet Baldwin doesn’t seem to care. He seems, rather, to go out of his way to spend time with Lucado.”

I thought about suggesting that maybe Baldwin just liked the guy, then I remembered we were talking about Frank. “Maybe he’s after the Blood of an Evil Man,” I said, attempting a joke.

But Hadrian sat up a little straighter. “Are you saying Baldwin has visited sorcerers? Do you know this for a fact?”

“You’re kidding, right? Baldwin? He hates everything supernatural.”

“Not if he thinks it will help him win. That man is all about power.” Hadrian shook his head, looking almost admiring. “There have been rumors—”

But I never heard the rest of the sentence, because a man’s scream tore through the night air. It was a horrible sound, ragged and drawn out, the kind of agonized shriek that must have rung through ancient torture chambers. I jumped up and ran to the balcony door, yanking it open. Another scream erupted—it was coming from inside the condo. From upstairs.

I grabbed my sword and dashed inside, taking the stairs two at a time to Lucado’s bedroom. The screaming was constant now, like the cries of the damned echoing off the walls of Hell. I put my hand on the doorknob and checked the amulet. It was colorless, transparent, without a hint of light. With my heart beating so hard I could see the amulet jump, I opened the door.

Lucado twisted in his bed, screaming. There was nothing, no one else in the room. The amulet remained clear and cold. Lucado’s eyes were closed; he was asleep. He must have been having one hell of a nightmare. I turned on the bedside lamp and balanced my sword against the wall. Then I went over to Lucado’s bed and shook his shoulder gently.

“Frank,” I said. “Shh . . . it’s all right.”

He grabbed my hand and sat up in midscream, his eyes flying open and rolling wildly. “Kill it, damn you!” he shouted. “Why don’t you kill it?”

“Calm down, Frank. You were dreaming. Understand? It wasn’t real.”

He blinked, and understanding passed over his face like a sweeping searchlight. He let go of my hand and wiped his forehead. Rivulets of sweat poured down his temples. “Jesus. What a dream.”

“You all right now?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” His eyes remained a little dazed. I started to leave, but he reached out again and put a hand on my arm. “Wait. I . . . I gotta talk about it. Just for a minute. Just to make sure I’m really awake.”

“Okay.” I pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down.

Frank ruffled his hair, making it stick straight out on one side. His scar stood out vividly against his pale face. The guy looked shell-shocked.

“It was . . .” He paused and ruffled his hair again, like he was searching for the right words. “It was worse than those damned Harpies.”

“You dreamed about a demon?”

“Some kind of monster. All blue, and huge. Slimy. At first its head disappeared into the sky, like there was no end to it at all. But then it came closer and . . . and . . .”

“And what?”

“It sounds stupid now, but the damn thing smiled at me.

Its mouth was horrible, with hundreds of teeth—hundreds—and every one of ’em was bigger than that little sword of yours.”

His description made my mouth go dry. Difethwr—the Destroyer had invaded Frank’s dream. But how was that possible? The thing was a Hellion, not a Drude. And Frank only half believed in Hellions, so it couldn’t be one of his greatest fears materialized. It didn’t make sense.

Then it hit me. I remembered something Tina had said in her report on Drudes this afternoon. Sometimes other demons could take the form of a Drude. That’s what Difethwr had done; it had created an avatar, an image of itself, and sent it into Frank’s dreamscape as a Drude. I hadn’t expected that. But what would be the point if I had? Even if I’d entered Frank’s dreams to guard them, I couldn’t have killed Difethwr in there. I’d only have destroyed the avatar.

Frank blinked; gave a little jolt. “Hey, wait.” He scowled and grabbed my arm again; his fingers dug in, hard. “That thing you told Baldwin about in the car. That demon. This one was just like what you said. And when it smiled, it was like these flames shot out of its eyes and started burning me. I looked down, thinking, ‘My God, I’m on fire,’ but everything looked just like normal. I was burning on the inside.” He gave me a strange look. “Just like you described.”

“What you saw in your dream wasn’t really the Destroyer—” I started to explain, but Frank cut me off with a yell.

“You! You made that thing show up in my dream!”

“No, I—”

He interrupted again, his voice hysterical. “What the hell did you do that for? You want more money, is that it? You want more money out of me?”