Harsh Gods (13 page)

I shot her a sour look. “They got the jump on me—literally. I had my hands full… and I got careless,” I admitted. “Didn’t even think I might have people following me. Won’t make that mistake twice.”

Lil clucked her tongue. “You better pay closer attention today, flyboy, because I’m not going to be there to save your ass.”

“Who said you were coming with me, anyhow?” I asked, although I’d kind of assumed she would, given Lil’s typical intractability. But she ignored my question.

“At five thirty, I’m meeting up with the Windy City Vixens. I already ditched them for the tour through the Rock Hall to make sure you didn’t wake up dead. I’m at least catching dinner with them before they head back home.”

Again my mind boggled at the thought of Lil in a dance troupe. I could picture her dancing, sure, and burlesque fit her like a slinky velvet glove, but performing with other people? That bit refused to parse.

“Are these normal ladies you dance with?” I asked, searching for my keys in the pockets. Lil pointed to the stand beside the front door. I moved to grab them, adding, “You know, like mortals?”

She set her mug in the sink and started collecting her own stuff—car keys, blazer, the clutch purse that always seemed brimming with limitless useful items. She paused in front of one of my larger framed pieces—a folio page from a medieval book of hymns—and inspected her reflection in the glass. Ran her fingers through her wealth of dark red curls. Dabbed at the edge of her lipstick.

“You might hide yourself away with computer games and books, Zaquiel, but I prefer to have a life among people.” Her tone, for once, lacked the usual acerbic bite. “What’s the purpose of immortality if we don’t stop to actually
live
?”

I opened my mouth for a witty retort, but had nothing. She zipped up her boots and took her sable driving coat from a hanger in my closet. It was like she’d moved into the place while I slept. Settling the coat on her shoulders, she lifted her wild locks of hair so they cascaded down her back like a scarlet capelet. I had the feeling I was missing something—something terribly pertinent—and if I stared at her just right, comprehension would gel like one of those Magic Eye pictures emerging from visual static.

For the life of me, though, all I could think of was the way I’d watched Lil stab a corpse repeatedly in the head with an ice pick so it couldn’t become host to a cacodaimon while we both crouched in the murky halls of a retired Navy gunboat. Lil was efficient and brutal and terrifying—and she was being civil to me. There had to be sorcery afoot.

“You know, you didn’t have to stay and look after me,” I ventured.

With a deceptively prim gesture, she tucked her little white clutch purse in the crook of an elbow, then shot me a smile that reminded me of a stalking cat.

“Somebody has to. See you around, flyboy.”

She let herself out.

With Lil’s parting words still banging uneasily around in my brain, I headed down to the parking area behind my apartment. I’d meet up with Bobby first, since the station was right near the art museum. Then I’d check in with Terael. If another Rephaim really was present in the city, my statue-bound sibling would sense it—I hoped.

Terael was fond of pointing out that his perceptions only extended as far as the museum walls, but it was worth a shot. He’d at least have some advice for how to deal with this new presence if, indeed, Whisper Man turned out to be one of the Rephaim. I didn’t know a whole lot about that tribe beyond what I’d observed with Terael. Specifically, I had no idea how to hurt them.

It was tough enough dealing with Nephilim, who healed so fast that bullets were mostly a nuisance. The Rephaim were disembodied intelligences anchored to stone. “Killing” one didn’t exactly seem like it would be an option. Not that any of us ever stayed dead for very long.

Maybe I could
reason
with Whisper Man.

Yeah, right.
I’d have better luck inviting a Sith Lord over for tea.

Once I had something solid, I’d swing by the hospital and check in with Father Frank. He needed an update on what was going on. He and Sanjeet had probably tried calling me about eighty times already. Hopefully they’d had a less eventful night than I’d had.

If there was any way to protect Halley from Whisper Man’s influence, I’d do it—even if all I could manage was scribing wards around her hospital bed. The poor girl had enough trouble without one of my bat-shit crazy siblings clawing around inside her head.

Outside, dirty drifts of snow piled to either side of the asphalt lot. A low building with flat, corrugated roofing squatted near the back. It held four covered spaces for cars. One of them housed my motorcycle and the new car. I hadn’t quite gotten used to thinking of the car as mine. My old one—a lumbering Buick older than most college students—had been stolen the same time everything else in my life went to shit. The Buick never turned back up. For all I knew, it was at the bottom of the lake, too.

As a kind of consolation prize for her Machiavellian tendencies, my sibling Saliriel had bought me a bright, shiny Dodge Hellcat with more bells and whistles than a locomotive museum.

I hated it.

It was a gorgeous vehicle, no denying it, black and sleek with a profile reminiscent of the classic muscle cars from decades past. Some fragment of myself still lingering in my brain clung to a fondness for that type of automobile, and it was a safe bet Saliriel knew more about the previous me than I did. That must have influenced her choice of vehicular bribery.

When the Hellcat had showed up outside of my apartment building, along with keys, title, and a nicely penned note, I’d almost sent it right back to her. I still considered doing that. Sure, Sal’s machinations had cost me, but the Dodge didn’t match the part of my soul she’d extracted through her oath. To me the car was just another debt, and it was accruing interest with each passing minute.

Still, the insurance money from the stolen Buick would’ve barely covered a down payment, and I’d lost a lot of hours at work. So I drove the Dodge for the time being. Even I wasn’t crazy enough to ride the motorcycle through a Cleveland winter.

It hadn’t moved in close to a month, so I sat and let it warm up, sorting through the music I’d tossed on the passenger seat. The Hellcat came with some kind of fancy satellite radio hookup which I’d never bothered to learn. I still owned CDs. Hell, I’d found cassettes and eight tracks in my apartment, and from the range of titles, my musical tastes ran toward the eclectic.

Mahler. Sinatra. Tool. None of them appealed. I fished around in the divider between the seats, pulling out a battered iPod. I loosed its Gordian tangle of wires, plugging in the important bits. Choosing a playlist at random, I hit shuffle. As Billy Idol’s familiar rebel yell started blasting through the speakers, I pulled onto the street.

The quickest route to the station was down Mayfield, but that took me past Lake View. So I turned down Euclid Heights instead, and followed it all the way to Carnegie. The amnesia had robbed me of a lot of things, but my knowledge of the city’s many back streets remained intact. As long as I didn’t think too hard about it, I knew exactly where to go. It only got confusing when my knowledge of different time periods overlapped.

I pulled up to a corner with a traffic light. As the car idled, I glanced to my right, expecting to see a smoke shop. The garish colors of a McDonald’s greeted me instead. A sharp sweep of nostalgia welled up, stealing my breath. I couldn’t say why the place had been important, but I could practically see it still sitting there on the corner, shimmering through the fast food joint like a double-exposure on film.

I had a feeling that if I peered across to the Shadowside, the smoke shop would still be there, brimming with echoes of long-gone patrons. The patchwork of emotions this conjured was nuanced and complex. Intimations of meaning drifted on the very edge of thought.

The car behind me honked in irritation. The light was green. It had probably been green for a while. I sped up a little too quickly, feeling haunted by my own ghost.

Cutting down Stokes, I headed toward the big, rambling church that looked like it had a massive oilcan bolted to the top. It was a fixture in this part of town. The copper roofs—including the unfortunate oilcan-shaped spire—had weathered to a verdant green in the city’s industrial rain, creating an unmistakable profile against the steely gray of the evening’s gathering clouds.

The station on Chester Avenue was a broad brick affair sprawling on a corner lot. I pulled around the building, finding visitor parking across from a row of squad cars. While Mick Jagger wailed about all his colors turning black, I eased the Hellcat into a space at the back corner of the lot. Killing the engine, I pulled out my SIG, double-checked the safety, then tucked the gun in the glove compartment. If I needed my pistol in the police department, something would’ve gone horribly, horribly wrong.

The Stones cut off abruptly as I opened the door. I thumbed a button on the fancy remote key fob, and the vehicle chirped twice. Arming the security system while the car sat in the parking lot of a police station seemed excessive. I did it anyway.

My cowl settled tight across my wings as I walked up the front steps, locking all my mental defenses into place. I’d spent enough time filling out paperwork at this station and I really didn’t want to pick up on any of the emotional echoes that lingered inside its walls. Between the daily frustration of the officers and the ugly stew of anxiety, depravity, and guilt left behind by the worst of their offenders, I was happier feeling a little suffocated.

Bobby waited for me in the lobby. A compact figure with a slim, wiry build, he had a tightly wound intensity that practically vibrated on a molecular level. If it had been possible to harness the Korean-American officer’s brimming energy, the cops might have leased him to Detroit to help power the failing grid. The instant Bobby caught sight of me, he flashed a cheery smile of such brilliant wattage that I felt like a total dick for ignoring him this long.

“Hey,” I said, dipping my chin in an understated greeting.

Bobby swept over to me. I kept my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. Like Father Frank, Bobby didn’t bother trying for a handshake. The little officer—he couldn’t have stood more than five foot four with his shoes on—rocked on his heels, pushing a sweep of gelled bangs back from his eyes. He held his arms out and did a half-turn, as if modeling.

“Notice anything?” he asked, a smile crinkling the edges of his eyes.

He wore a neatly pressed gray wool suit paired with a pale-yellow shirt that might have been silk. His blue tie had angled yellow stripes that were actually Minions marching across it, if you looked close enough. The suit looked tailored, and the cut of his wide-legged pants screamed more “club kid” than “gumshoe.”

“You’re out of uniform?” I asked.

“No more uniform!” he crowed. “You’re looking at Detective-Investigator Bobby Park.” He swept the edge of his suit jacket back with a flourish and flashed the badge he wore clipped at his belt.

“Oh, hey,” I responded. “Congratulations.”

He beamed. “They even put me with my old partner, David Garrett. Can’t wait to re-introduce you two.” He dialed back the smile, and asked, “How’ve you been? Growing your hair out again?”

I dashed a hand self-consciously through the unruly tangle. “Nah. Just lazy.” Then I glanced around. “What did you need me to take a look at?”

“Pretty nasty case.” Shadows like scudding clouds darkened his buoyant expression. “But first, let’s make you official.” He held out a visitor tag.

I took it, frowning at my biker jacket. There was no good place to clip it and I didn’t want to hurt the leather. I settled on clipping it to the end of one of the upper zippers. The laminated tag dangled precariously, but it held.

“I thought this was off the books?” I said warily.

Vigorously, Bobby nodded. “Just making sure nobody gives you grief. I’ll try to keep things quick.” He started walking, short legs pumping as he led me past the front desk. “I really appreciate you doing this for me, Zack. I didn’t want to bug you—I really didn’t—but this case, it’s got so many things that make no sense.”

I followed mutely behind, wondering whether or not the most puzzling aspects of the case might connect it back to Whisper Man, and how much I’d be able to explain to Bobby if they did. My sprightly police escort chattered as we threaded back through drop-ceiling halls, fluorescents buzzing overhead.

“I mean, people kill people all the time, but not like this,” he said. “There’s things you can’t unsee, you know?” I nodded to show my sympathy, although with him rushing along ahead of me, he probably didn’t notice.

“It’s so much worse because of the kids,” he continued. “Poor Garrett. He hasn’t been right since the investigation began—his little girl is the youngest daughter’s age. He even started smoking again.” This time he did glance back, boyish features eloquent with concern. “You know how hard it was for him to quit.”

“Actually, I don’t,” I reminded him gently. I even managed not to look bitter about it, but Bobby halted so suddenly that I almost tumbled over him. He gushed apologies, repeating “sorry” with such fevered rapidity, it sounded like he was going for some kind of record.

I held up a hand.

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “Shit happens.”

“Yeah, but of all people, I should really know better,” he said. “I worked the case. I know what those people did to you. I am
so
sorry, Zack.”

“Seriously, let it go, Bobby,” I insisted. I fought to keep the irritation from my face. I wasn’t angry at Bobby—just worn out. Sorry couldn’t fix my troubles. “Let’s get back to this thing, OK? Your partner started smoking. How long’ve you guys been working this without a break?”

Bobby did that nervous fidget, rubbing his palm across the back of his head.

“Sorry,” he faltered, then laughed miserably at himself. “I mean—sorry I keep saying sorry—”

“The case, Bobby. How long?”

“Right. Three weeks?” he ventured. He unclipped the work phone from his belt, tapped in his passcode, then scrolled through his notes to double check. “Uh, four this Tuesday. I know that’s not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but it’s a long time to live with some of these images. The little girls in that house, Zack—”