Urban Enemies Page 6

  Faber does not approach the house. He has seen Alfonse bounce off my first line of defense and is smart enough to pause, to hesitate, to reassess. Faber appears to be a fat simpleton whose mind has softened from years of easy living in his Texas compound, tended by his magically Charmed followers, but his mind is as sharp as ever. He closes his eyes and speaks, casting. Behind him, several of his thin Bleeders stiffen and jerk, scrambling to cut themselves, their lifeblood pulled rudely from them, gulped and boiled off. It is an inelegant, wasteful way to gain Sacrifice, but then Faber is a man of appetites.

  He vanishes. He has teleported himself.

  Teleportation is not a difficult spell; rank amateurs can often imagine clever ways to move themselves. The direct approach runs against the physical laws of the universe, but there are cheats. Any ustari of experience knows at least one. To move yourself fifty feet so that you are inside a building instead of outside a building, thus avoiding all security, is not difficult.

  It is so obvious a move that I have, of course, prepared for it.

  One of my Glamours smiles slightly as I imagine Gottschalk being funneled into the tiny room I have prepared. He will have to crouch, hot and unable to breathe. He will seek threads of sacrifice in the air and find none. He will sweat and his enlarged, weakened heart will pound, and he will wonder how he was so easily trapped. And then he will slowly realize that to escape he will have to bleed himself. A man of Gottschalk's stature has not bled himself in decades. His skin is milky and smooth and untouched.

  He will realize he must bleed himself to escape, and then he will realize he does not have a blade. Because a man of Gottschalk's stature does not cut himself.

  I wonder what he will sacrifice of himself. His tongue? A vein, chewed through? It is amusing to picture him gnawing at himself.

  Alfonse is smarter. A brute who prefers the frontal assault, yes, but he appreciates a good trap and stands there, irresolute. Many people assume hesitation in battle is a weakness, but the opposite is true. Those who do not pause to contemplate their surroundings, to consider new data, wind up in tiny boxes, like Gottschalk. Alfonse stands and grinds his teeth, hands balled into fists, considering how he will gain entry without being entrapped himself.

  I do nothing. Sacrifice is not to be wasted.

  When Alfonse decides, he is clever. He sees that teleportation is a trap, so he assumes all such subtleties are traps, and he gestures, his people Bleed, and he quickly casts a brute-force spell that sends an explosive blow against the front door. When the door cracks, he scans the destruction, seeking obvious Wards or other markings that would indicate another trap; then he gestures again, and one of his Bleeders steps forward to test the entry. The Bleeder is older, graying, lucky to have lived this long in Alfonse's employ; yet he's also so typically fleshy because he's lived well in Alfonse's employ. We all feed off each other. Those who condemn our order as parasitic need to see more Bleeders like this plump fellow, his innards awash in fine food and liquor, his memories filled with pleasant afternoons and elegant entertainments, his family left a handsome legacy in cash.

  As the Bleeder crosses what's left of my threshold, he catches fire, a green flame, impossible to extinguish. Alfonse studies the entryway as the man dies screaming, leaving quite a mess just when I no longer have an apprentice to clean it up. The fat man isn't eager to join him, and I let him do his sums. If he decides the cost is too dear, that perhaps I am not as defenseless as he hoped, he will be allowed to leave. I can hunt him down and extract my revenge anytime.

  Then Alfonse purses his chubby lips and gestures. Behind him, all four of his remaining Bleeders immediately cut, and cut deeply.

  The greedy bastard.

  I wait. I listen through three sets of ears.

  You can always learn something from a man who has lived so well for so long as Alligherti. And, indeed, as I listen to the spell he is casting, peppered with nonsense syllables in order to confuse and obfuscate, I am impressed. Before I can compose a suitable retaliation, he sinks, the pavement and dirt beneath him cracking open and swallowing him.

  A moment later, his Bleeders follow, sinking down into the dirt and disappearing.

  With a thunderous explosion of expensive marble tiles, they emerge in the foyer, just beyond the fallen Bleeder. Instead of wasting time and effort unraveling my spells and traps, Alfonse has gone under them. Covered in dirt and dust, he wastes no time. He marches off, his tiny feet surprisingly nimble, his bedraggled, weakened Bleeders swanning after him, marching, they now suspect, to their doom.

  Alfonse plans to take everything from me. He moves purposefully for the stairs. I feel a drip of anxiety, of worry; it is unfamiliar and exciting, my buried heart lurching in my chest as my body remains still, my eyes closed, my lips in motion. I had not imagined my defenses to be impenetrable, especially against someone of Alligherti's caliber, but I expected them to last a bit longer than this. I do my sums without passion, and the result is clear; it is time to retreat. Using my supply of sacrifice to slow Alfonse's progress is foolish, when I can use it instead to destroy him, no matter the cost.

  I begin reciting a new biludha, two of my Glamours singing the ritual, the erin gilleem. It isn't the most powerful or intricate ritual, but it is elegant. My two voices circle each other, a symphony, and as they recite the whole house begins to tremble. Cracks burst the walls. The floors shift, and Alfonse and his Bleeders stagger on the stairs, stopping, holding on to the banister, hesitant. Alfonse is not worried; his confirmation bias tells him that since he has so far escaped the traps and blades of his enemies, he will always manage to do so. But Alfonse makes the mistake of all greedy, fat boys who believe that things are only valuable when you hoard them. Alfonse has worked very hard to collect his possessions, and he cannot imagine that anyone would purposefully destroy theirs. He believes he is safe because he is inside my home, my cherished manse.

  My third Glamour begins a second spell. As she speaks, I rise from the bed.

  The building is shaking. The grounds outside are shaking. A great sizzling noise fills the air, like endless sand falling on glass. Alfonse continues to advance, certain this is all noise and light, intended to blind him, to frighten him off. He is a veteran of our wars, ustari hurling fireballs and Stringers and hunks of granite at each other with a few Words, and he knows how expensive spells are. So much sacrifice, so much blood. Easier to trick and dissemble. Easier to spend on a Glamour of the building crashing down around you than to actually destroy the whole structure.

  My body floats. The windows open, and I am outside. My Glamour floats after me, speaking the spell. The house continues to shake and shudder. My Glamour inside, still speaking the erin gilleem, changes position, blinking out of view in one place and appearing on the shaking stairs, directly in front of Alfonse. So I can see his face as he realizes he has been trapped.

  My Glamour appears, smiling down at him, speaking the spell, and he stops short, sweating, hanging on to the railing. He stares at my Glamour, my beautiful face, my terrible expression, and then the lovely moment comes; he blanches. His face twists. Roaring, he spins and snaps a command to his Bleeders, hissing out a new spell as he races down.

  It will not avail him. The same Wards and spells that prevented him from entering the house will prevent him from leaving it. He will attempt to tunnel out in the same manner by which he tunneled in, but as my Glamour completes the biludha, the house--my house, built from blood I personally shed, from Words I personally spoke--implodes. Chunks of stone and plaster and wood rain down on Alfonse and his Bleeders, and the taste of new sacrifice tells me the Bleeders are crushed, ground down by my will.

  But not Alfonse. Alfonse has used this new sacrifice to protect himself. A piece of marble falls from the upper floors and skitters off an invisible shield he has created.

  I choose different Words, and the erin gilleem shifts and alters. Debris rains down on Alfonse. He doggedly makes for the exit--any exit--as the physical walls crumble. Hi
s progress is slow, and every time his spell protects him from the chunks of stone and wood he must reinforce it, using more and more of the sacrifice in the air. And my Glamour speaks the spell and rains more destruction down onto him, this man who dared to invade my home.

  I tear that home down. I bury him in it.

  The ritual digs a deep trough in the earth as the building collapses, and Alfonse, still inside his protective shell, still speaking his own spell, using the bountiful sacrifice in the air to fuel it, sinks down. Stone and metal and wood rain down over him, and while they do not touch him, his progress slows and then stops, and still the building comes down. My body floats far above now, accompanied by my two Glamours, one speaking the spell that transports me while the other crushes Alligherti. The noise is punishing, buffeting us, making my brittle bones shake. I watch as everything crumbles, my home, my Blood Farm, the glorious Fabrication Evelyn Fallon designed for me, for my immortality spell.

  I watch as everything I have is devoured by the erin gilleem, crushing Alfonse beneath its weight. I sense the blood in the air, the sacrifice, fading as my prisoners in the farm are killed and all the spells working simultaneously absorb their suffering. I imagine Alfonse, eyes wide, face red and sweaty, sensing that he will soon be unable to maintain his shell and the weight of my wrath will crush him like an ant under a car wheel. Will he bleed himself? Will he tear at his own wrist in terror, to gain a few more seconds of his spell, a few more seconds of life?

  I am not paralyzed, though I appear to be to most. My lips, dry and cracked, thin and old, stretch into a grin. I will have to begin again, but that is no matter.

  The world is populous. The herd is eager to be bled.

  SIXTY-SIX SECONDS

  CRAIG SCHAEFER

  Craig Schaefer's interconnected series depict a world mired in crime, black magic, and infernal intrigue. Fontaine (from the Harmony Black series) is a demonic bounty hunter, sworn to uphold hell's cruel laws and drag his targets to eternal damnation. The Redemption Choir (from the Daniel Faust series) is a sect of terrorists determined to tear down the gates of hell at any cost. In "Sixty-Six Seconds," when their paths inevitably cross, it makes for one long and blood-soaked night.

  10:42 p.m.

  Waking up inside a body bag was nothing new.

  Fontaine groaned, shifting strange limbs, squirming like a caterpillar in a black vinyl cocoon. The formaldehyde in his veins, burning sludge, rippled and pulsed. He had sawdust behind his eyes, like the hangover after an all-weekend bender, and his fingers traced the Y-shaped stitches of an autopsy incision along his chest. They'd scooped out his organs, stuffed them in a cold plastic bag, and shoved them back behind his broken ribs before sewing him up again.

  Just enough wiggle room at the top of the zipper to slip a finger through. He worked the zipper all the way down, but the darkness remained. Fontaine sighed, clenched his fist, and punched the roof of the stainless-steel mortuary drawer.

  "Swear to the abyss, I don't know what I pay that boy for," he muttered. "Irving!"

  Casters rattled as the drawer slid open. Blinding fluorescent overheads banished the dark. Still lying on the slab, nestled in the half-open body bag, Fontaine cupped a hand over his aching eyes. Irving shifted from foot to foot anxiously, light glare bouncing off his chunky Buddy Holly glasses. His hair was mussed like a California surfer's, and a splatter of acne marred his greasy forehead.

  "Sorry, boss. Wasn't sure which body you were going to wake up in."

  Fontaine groaned as he swung his legs over the slab, bare feet touching down on the icy morgue floor. Red candles burned all around the room, propped up on empty gurneys and tables, and the scent of frankincense hung in the stagnant air. Irving had splashed his glyph of evocation across the grimy tile, the sigils drawn in rusty scarlet, not far from the corpse of a pale and throat-cut rabbit. Fontaine took a step forward, testing his new legs, and nearly slipped in a smear of blood.

  "Did you have to use the entire bunny? Moderation is a virtue, son." His words had a smooth, fluid drawl, half from waking up, and half from accent and habit. He paused. "Still, your summoning technique is getting better."

  Fontaine eyed himself in a mirror on the far side of the morgue. His new host looked about forty, reasonably fit, adequate for the job. His hairline had receded like the polar ice caps, though, for which he'd absurdly compensated by growing what was left of his stringy blond hair out past his shoulders.

  "Business in the front, party in the back," Fontaine muttered. "Fuck me running. Where are we, anyway?"

  Irving rummaged through a pair of bulky suitcases, looking Fontaine up and down, tugging out rumpled clothes to fit his stolen body. A twill button-down shirt, a pair of stone-washed jeans. A shoulder holster of soft calfskin and a battered old overcoat to hide it under.

  "Detroit," Irving said with a wince. "Sorry. On the plus side, I got exactly what you asked for. It's a Green Letter contract, just came through. Top priority, and straight from Prince Malphas. You pull this off, it's a huge payday. And, um, your new apprentice just got here."

  Fontaine slapped his forehead. "Is that today? I thought that was next week. Can you get me out of it? Make up a story, tell 'em the hunt's been canceled?"

  "She's right outside . . ." Irving paused as the mortuary door swung open. The new arrival looked like someone's nightmare of a twelve-year-old girl, with a flat pale face and huge dead-fish eyes. Her long black hair draped down the back of her frilled dress, a dirty white frock with pearl buttons, straight out of a Dickens novel.

  "Gotta be kidding me," Fontaine said. "You look like Wednesday Addams on the back of a milk carton. And the milk's gone sour."

  "You look like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down," she chirped. "Nice hair, fucko."

  "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

  "I ate my mother," the little girl said. "Probably ate yours, too. She probably liked it."

  Irving coughed into his hand, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. "Um, Mr. Fontaine, meet Rache. Rache, Mr. Fontaine will be conducting your evaluation of fitness for formal investment in the Revered Order of Chainmen, hallowed be their--"

  "Get to the good part." Rache propped a hand on her hip and stared him down.

  "Right. The briefing. Okay, it's a Green Letter bounty. High risk, high reward. The Redemption Choir is operating in Detroit, and Prince Malphas wants an example made."

  Fontaine's brow furrowed. "I thought that outfit got busted up out in Nevada." He glanced to Rache. "Self-styled 'freedom fighters,' looking to overthrow the courts of hell and earn a little of that old-time salvation."

  Irving shook his head. "Intel says their old leader died and most of the membership walked out, but a few hard-core followers are still in play, and they're getting ready for something big. Their new head honcho calls himself the Madrigal. Word is, his top agents are all in town tonight. Malphas wants the whole set, and he wants them collected by sunrise."

  "How many targets are we talkin', here?" Fontaine asked.

  Irving produced a slim sandalwood box. He turned it in his palm, flicking brass clasps to open it wide. Inside, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, nestled four vials of forged black iron. Spidery glyphs covered their curving faces, words in a forgotten and dead language, glittering like silver.

  "Four targets. Sunrise is at 7:02 a.m., which gives you just a little over eight hours to get the job done. All four souls, delivered by the deadline, or the contract is canceled and we don't get a dime. This is an all-or-nothing deal."

  Rache cocked her head to one side. "So even if we catch three of them, we don't get paid? At all? That's bullshit."

  "Malphas is a prince of hell," Irving said. "His bounty, his rules. Oh, and I figure this Madrigal guy probably skipped town already, but there's a bonus if you can snatch him, too. Like, a huge bonus. A 'down payment on my new house' bonus. He's worth more than the other four put together. Considering taking him out would pretty
much destroy what's left of the Redemption Choir, it'd be a huge boost to your professional reputation. So maybe keep your ears open?"

  "I'll get right on that," Fontaine said, buttoning his shirt. "Remind 'em, I need the bounty money on this side of the universe. Uncut gems, gold bullion, American cash if they can swing it on short notice. Let's talk about gear. I hope you brought your entire goodie basket; something tells me I'm gonna need it tonight. Oh, and do me one favor?"

  "Name it, boss."

  "Once we start huntin', run out and buy me a hat. I can't--" He gestured at his hairline helplessly. "I just can't work with this."

  11:17 p.m.

  September rain cloaked the streets of Detroit in an icy mist. Dismal gray fog clung to lonely streetlights, wreathing pale yellow bulbs like the remnants of lost souls. Dead spirits with nowhere to go. Broken pavement crunched under Fontaine's shoes. He balled his hands into fists, shoving them deep into his overcoat pockets. Rache hustled along at his side, lugging a fat aluminum-sided briefcase, her short legs pumping to match his long, smooth strides. He'd sent her out of the morgue just long enough to make a quick phone call in private. That, and to reiterate his request for a hat. Irving said he'd see what he could do.

  "So you wanna do what I do for a living," Fontaine said. "Why?"

  "Heard I could get paid for hurting people. I told the recruiter she had me at 'hello.' "

  "Little more to the job than that." Fontaine paused at a corner, squinting in both directions, then led the way down a quiet side street. "What we do is important. The Chainmen are the first and last line of defense against the enemies of hell. We don't just enforce infernal law, we embody it."

  "Oh, shit," Rache muttered, "an idealist. Bet you're fun at parties."

  "Not an idealist, darlin', just practical. Nobody ever teach you history? We tried rule by chance and anarchy, way back when, and those were dark days indeed. Lucky we survived at all. The law keeps everybody in line."