Viper Moon (8 page)

Michael suddenly turned the car down a side street and we rolled through a block of abandoned apartment houses. Nothing stirred here, at least nothing human. Only the Jag’s headlights running before us cut the darkness. The Jag’s engine sounded like a kitten’s gentle purr. It barely disturbed the silence that filled these grim ruins. A musty smell, like wet towels dumped into a hamper and forgotten, filled the air. I shivered. As I finished a prayer to the Mother that Michael knew what he was doing, he stopped the car.

“You see that building?” He nodded to his right.

The bare outline of a three-story apartment house stood out against the nebulous fog. Great holes gaped in its facade, a testament to a time when windows and doors once secured people’s homes and lives.

“I was born there,” Michael said softly. “There was a health clinic on the corner then, and a nurse ran up three flights of stairs to catch me when I popped out. Her name was Katharine Lester. My mother tried to kill me, but Kathy fought her and stole me away. She persuaded the courts to let her raise me. I grew up in Katharine’s apartment—and on these streets.”

“Nurse Kathy? From the Fourteenth Street Clinic.”

“The same.”

I’d heard of Kathy. Her clinic still served the indigent in the Barrows, even though she’d died a few years ago. I’d gone a few times, but no one would tell me anything, so I gave up.

“Were there . . . things . . . here when you were a kid?”

Michael laughed softly. “You mean the creatures in the sewers? Yes, but not as many as now. There seems to have been a sudden population explosion over the last few years. We neighborhood boys learned how to avoid them as we grew up, or we became lunch. The Bastinados weren’t as bad, either. Things grew far worse fifteen years ago when the sewers stopped working and the electricity went down. No one would come in and repair things. Kathy went down to city hall many times to complain, but they did nothing.”

I wondered if the Mother had some grand plan to drive people out, but it didn’t seem likely since she didn’t go there. “Where do the monsters come from? You know?”

“No.”

I wanted to ask why his mother had tried to kill him and what became of her. I didn’t. I suspected I’d already asked one personal question too many.

“So, you’re a survivor.” I stared hard at him, at those lovely long-fingered hands that casually gripped the steering wheel. “What’s it got to do with being human?”

“I survived because I was born with certain extrasensory abilities. Like some other people I know.” The dim light from the dash painted his face with shadows.

“So are you saying that you’re as human as I am?”

“Yes.”

“You belong to the Barrows, so do you also belong to the—?”

“Don’t speak of it. Not here. Not so close.” He reached out and clutched my shoulder for a moment. “Let’s not call too much attention to our presence.”

It didn’t comfort me to know he feared the Darkness. Many good servants fear their masters. Michael drove on, carefully steering around debris and holes in the street.

Once in my life I stood in the actual presence of the Earth Mother. She accepted my vow and I became her servant. Had the malicious Darkness touched Michael in the same way, and did contact with such powerful beings make us something less or more than human? My life could depend on the answer to that question by the time the dark moon rose. I knew from experience that such answers wouldn’t come without a struggle.

Michael continued down the littered street and into the completely abandoned section of the Barrows. The Zombie Zone.

I cleared my throat. “Um, this is the Zombie, Michael.”

“Yes.” Michael silently laughed. He reached over, caught the back of my neck, and gave me a gentle shake. Like Horus when he plays with the mice he’s half killed, then brings to the girls. “Don’t worry, Huntress. You’re always safe with me.”

I shivered. The Darkness lay close here. Its presence filled the air and shimmered along my skin. Cold, so cold. I glanced over at Michael. His classic profile betrayed nothing. In spite of his caution not to
speak
of evil, he drove through the harrowing night as if he were driving in uptown Duivel, without a care in the world. I kept my eyes straight ahead. I didn’t search the shadows and I didn’t dwell on what threat might be pacing along the slow-moving Jag, right outside my open window.

We exited the Zombie Zone and soon arrived at the Goblin Den parking lot. Like the Archangel, the Goblin Den operates in a converted warehouse. Michael parked near the front door, where four rough-looking men stood guard. Michael’s uniformed bouncers were polished and acted tough and competent. These guys looked like some idiot released them from a maximumsecurity prison yesterday. One walked to the driver’s side and another approached me. My hand slid under my jacket for my gun.

“Good evening, Mr. Michael,” said the man at the driver’s door.

What? Mr. Michael?

Michael nodded his head like an emperor receiving a servant. The one on my side courteously opened my door. When I climbed out, I found Michael had come around to stand close to me. He put his mouth to my ear and spoke softly. “Leave your gun in the car.” His lips trailed along my cheek and, may the Mother forgive me, I leaned into the solid mass of his chest.

“Michael, I—”

“You chose to come here with me, Huntress. Now you have to trust me to protect you.”

My voice shook when I said, “I should trust a man who says he belongs to the Barrows?”

Michael shrugged. “We can leave.”

Right. My choice. Could there be anything more fearful in the Goblin Den than I had faced before? I crouched by the open car door, drew the pistol, and stuck it under the passenger seat. When I stood and closed the door, I noticed the windows were still open.

“You’re not going to lock it?”

“No one will touch it.” Michael’s hand closed on my arm with a firm, steady grip, and he led me to the Goblin Den’s front door.

This appeared to be a night for revelations. “You’ll excuse me while I reassess my opinion of you.”

He released my arm and slid his hand around my waist. “That’s my intention. Perhaps I should have brought you here sooner.”

“I still have my knives, Michael, and human or not, I’ll bet bronze will cut your ass.”

Michael laughed.

I’d tried to sound mean, but it felt good being so near him in such a dangerous place. Just good. Not safe. More like hugging a tiger. A delicious tension radiated from his perfect body, but beneath that, I could sense power and energy that went beyond what the eyes could see. How could I not desire him? How could I not also fear him?

I’d been to the Goblin Den only once before. I snuck in the back door in broad daylight to steal a thin, pitiful four-year-old from his drug-addicted and fortunately unconscious mother.

Big barrel lights hung from the ceiling and illuminated an eardrum-busting heavy metal band as they shouted with youthful vigor from the stage. People of indefinable gender gyrated on the crowded floor while the band did a good imitation of Metallica. Sweaty bodies, bad beer, and other less classifiable odors oozed through the cloud of cigarette smoke laced with the more exotic aroma of marijuana.

I’d often wondered what called people to such a place. It didn’t speak to me, but the expressions of ecstasy on the dancers’ faces made me wonder if I should try it.

Michael led me around the room’s edge. The stairs we climbed to the upper reaches of the building vibrated under our feet and smoke thickened and swirled around us. I drew shallow breaths, hoping I could draw in enough oxygen to stay conscious while sucking in a minimum of carcinogens. At the top, Michael opened a door and we entered a room with large windows that, like the office at the Archangel, overlooked the floor below. The noise level dropped to a heavy bass grumble. The room was cleaner and brighter than downstairs, and smelled infinitely better.

Not that it mattered, of course. Because when I saw who waited for me, I knew I was in deep shit. If Carlos Dacardi was a bad guy, then Pericles Theron was evil incarnate. And I didn’t have my gun.

Theron’s fierce dark eyes locked on me and I gave thanks to the Mother—and Michael—that I hadn’t come here alone. Theron and I knew each other by sight and reputation. He sat on the corner of a fine oak desk, glaring at me like a predator that had captured something to kill.

“You got balls, Michael, bringing that bitch here.” Theron’s body was ferret slim, but his voice sounded deep and heavy with hatred. His two bodyguards, muscular bruisers worthy of Dacardi, stood behind him. Both had guns in shoulder holsters.

Carlos Dacardi might control the Duivel underworld, but he had no hold in the Barrows. Theron ruled human vice in the Barrows. A venomous man, his primary business ventures included prostitution and porno movies with money laundered through the Den. A buyer and worldwide distributor of kiddie porn, he paid hard cash for anything that starred children.

Theron stood and stalked toward me. I tried to step away so I could at least draw my knife, but Michael clutched me tight and I couldn’t move.

“Fucking bitch,” Theron snarled at me. “You crippled my best cameraman.”

“Yeah, you should have been there, asshole.” I stuffed all my contempt into my voice. “He cried like a little kid when I broke his . . . camera.” I had seriously damaged his filthy, pedophile cameraman when I rescued Maxie Fountain a few weeks ago. I’d interrupted a filming session, and hearing Maxie beg the son of a bitch not to hurt him again was more than I could stand.

I twisted, but tenacious Michael drew me tighter. A sliver of fear crawled up my spine. What was he doing? Holding me so Theron could attack me?

Theron drew a knife. “I’m going to cut you, bitch. Hurt you bad.”

Michael released me, spun me away. By the time I twisted around, he had Theron by his wrist. The snap of bone sounded above Theron’s single cry of pain. The knife fell to the carpet. The bodyguards reacted—seconds too late. Michael shoved Theron into one guard and the two men crashed to the floor. The second managed to get off a single silencer-muted shot. Michael snarled like a wolf. The bullet grazed his arm near the shoulder and slammed into a picture on the wall. Shattered glass tinkled as it hit the floor.

Michael caught the shooter by his shirt and belt, lifted him like a child’s toy, and threw him at the glass window overlooking the dance floor. Only the window wasn’t glass and it didn’t break. The man slammed into the clear Plexiglas wall with a meaty thump, hung suspended for a fraction of a second, then slid to the floor and didn’t move.

When Michael released the goon for his flying lesson, he immediately turned back to Theron and the other guard. The guard’s gun lay a few feet from his hand, but Theron’s struggling body pinned him down. Michael kicked the gun away, then kicked the guard in the head. The man drew one sharp breath, released it, and his body went limp.

Michael grabbed Theron by his shirt and hair and hauled him to his feet. Theron screamed once, a single shrill cry that cut off midbreath.

“Cassandra.” I jumped when Michael spoke my name. “Pericles looks a little tired. Why don’t you find him a chair?”

I hurried over and dragged a chair from behind the desk. This scene went against all my training and the concept that I was the one who controlled the violence in my life. I didn’t complain, though.

Michael sat Theron in the chair with surprising gentleness. Theron seemed physically shrunken. Other than drawing fast, deep breaths, he didn’t make any noise. His arm hung down, but when Michael released him, he drew it up and cradled it with the uninjured one. The swelling lump on his wrist had to be extremely painful. Since I’ve had more than my share of broken bones, I could feel some empathy, but I didn’t have any true compassion for a man who brutalized children. I studied Michael for a brief moment. He had suddenly shown an aptitude for violence I’d never seen. Maybe some of those rumors were true.

Michael stood in front of Theron. “Cassandra needs to ask you questions. I think you should answer them.” His voice sounded pleasant, but it had a biting, deadly edge. I damn sure didn’t want Michael the Archangel as an enemy.

Theron nodded. He ignored me now, opting to keep his eyes on the real danger standing in front of him.

“Show him the pictures, Cass,” Michael said.

I fished Richard’s and Selene’s photos out of my jacket pocket and held them in front of Theron’s face. He glanced at them for a second, then back at Michael. He stared at Michael for a long time, then said, “Hammer had them. I asked, but he said they were for a special buyer and I didn’t have enough money.”

I knew Hammer, a minor drug peddler and pimp. Not known for kidnapping, but I supposed he could be expanding his business.

I’ve seriously injured a few Bastinados and perverts who got in my way, even killed a couple in self-defense. I drew my knife and decided I’d make my first true murder a man who prostituted children. Michael caught my wrist.

“Don’t bother. Someone will take his place. Better a familiar evil than someone new.”

I pulled against Michael’s unyielding hand. Finally, I relaxed.

True, I knew how Theron operated, and that knowledge helped me find Maxie Fountain. But I still wanted to risk it all and kill him anyway. “You get a pass for now,” I snarled at Theron. “Courtesy of the Archangel. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

“Who is Hammer’s buyer?” Michael demanded of Theron.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Theron’s head drooped.

I sheathed my knife and pointed at the blood on Michael’s sleeve. “Is that bad?”

He stared at the blood as if seeing it for the first time. “No. Come on. He doesn’t know anything else.”

We left Theron sitting in the chair. Michael led me down the stairs and through the eardrum-bruising turmoil of the Goblin. He didn’t exactly hurry, but he made a steady-moving beeline toward the door. In minutes, we were outside, in the Jag, and rolling back into the relatively blessed silence on River Street.