A City Dreaming (38 page)

“This is nonsense,” Salome said, trying to outdo her rival. A second
failure, though she managed to get her hand nearly within clutching distance of the door handle before finding herself, dazed and flustered, back where she had started, smoking a cigarette seriously.

“It's called the Rite of the Exterminating Angel,” M explained. “And it means you won't find yourself able to leave. No one will. Of course, if you keep trying, maybe you'll force yourself through. Or maybe it'll shatter your mind like a mirror. Seven years bad luck, you know. Have fun either way. While you're dicking around, I'm going to go ahead and figure out who killed my friend.”

That managed to turn the crowd's attention, for the moment at least, away from the gate and back toward the corpse growing cold on the lawn.

“Ibis?” Cavill asked.

“Whoever done him is still at the party. As of now, it's a simple process of elimination.”

“How do we know it wasn't you?” asked a member of the crowd, one of the Red Queen's people, guessing by his white-boy dreadlocks.

“You don't, which is why it's in everyone's interest to stick around until we've got this thing wrapped up.”

“And once we do,” Cavill said, “once we've found whatever piece of shit did Ibis at his own party, what happens then?”

“I'm a cross-one-bridge-at-a-time kind of person,” M said, turning to stare full bore at Cavill, “but nothing very good, I suppose. Now how about you go grab a drink and leave the adults to do some thinking.”

“I'm not thirsty.”

“You don't have to drink—you just need to stand where I can see you and keep your mouth shut.”

One of Salome's people, a cynical sort or just a glutton for punishment, made a motion for the door. But then she found herself, as M had suggested, over at the counter, pouring a glass of champagne, and the rest of the party decided it was easier to skip the middleman and go straight to the booze. Unbidden, the two factions separated, the tight core of Celise's contingent, fashionable bordering up on severe, taking up one end of the counter, leaving Abilene's crunchy conglomerate to hold down the other.

Belatedly, very belatedly, it occurred to M to check on Anais, who stood
a short way out in the greenery, silent and pale as a wraith. “Why don't you head inside, honey,” he said.

But she remained where she was, seemed not even to have heard him speak.

M set one hand on her shoulder, “Go inside. I'll take care of whoever did this, I swear.”

And though his words carried with them a weight of gravity which was unusual for a man as generally feckless as M, they did no good. Anais remained where she was, immobile from grief, and after another moment M sighed and went back to join Boy, Stockdale, Andre, and Flemel over the body of her murdered lover.

“What's your plan?” Flemel asked quietly.

“This was about as far as I'd gotten,” M admitted. Below his left wrist was a tattoo of a magnifying glass.

“Shit.”

“Somebody has to do something, or they'll be dating the start of the next war from tonight. At the moment we've still got a shot at heading off any more bloodshed.”

“And why would we want that?” Boy asked nastily. “I think a little blood is what we need right now, balance the scales. Remind the White Queen's people who they fucking with.”

“You'll forgive me if I take your judgment with a grain of blow.”

“Ibis has been my friend for a generation, and Abilene my patron since long before that.” Boy said. “Any attack on her is an attack on me.”

“Don't you fall neatly into lockstep. I see that haircut is just for show.”

“This is my borough, and I'd rather not see it become Tribeca. I've known Abilene for as long as you have, and I'm not so quick to forget the things she's done for me, or for the city.”

“Ingratitude is one of my stronger qualities,” M admitted. “Andre, you're a coward. Stick up for me.”

“I am brave as the Maid of Orléans,” Andre said. “And I live in Manhattan and work in high finance. I acknowledge the White Queen, as a fisherman does the tide.”

“That extends to dying in her service?”

“I'm afraid that weekend I have a wedding in the provinces. But it extends at least to saluting the flag when my fellow comrades in arms are looking.”

“Surely you're not buying any of this nonsense,” M said, turning to Stockdale.

“What can I say? I'll take Abilene over her opposite. Didn't you ever want to be a crusader, fight for something bigger than yourself?”

“I more saw myself as one of those guys who follow behind the army, finishing off the wounded and stealing rings from corpses.”

“That
is
how I think of you,” Boy said, grinding a cigarette beneath a platform heel and stamping off to take her place among the ranks of Abilene's other willing killers. “That's always been exactly how I've thought of you.”

Andre shrugged regretfully, then went to stand near Salome.

“And where are you standing, Stockdale?” M asked.

“Ibis was my friend.”

“Mine too. That's why I'm trying to find who killed him.”

“Is that what you're doing? Or are you just trying to head off trouble?”

“Yes, peacemaking, how ignoble an activity.”

“Not every peace is an honorable one,” Stockdale said. “Ask Neville Chamberlain.”

“Zero to Hitler in ten sentences flat, very impressive. I'm shocked you aren't running Question Time with the Prime Minister.” M picked a cigarette from a sneer. “I don't have time to argue. Are you with me, or are you going over to help Boy sharpen her claws?”

“What does being with you entail, exactly?”

“Dunno yet. But make sure to play along once I do.”

“There can't be many people here strong enough to have put down Ibis,” Stockdale said. “Fair enough he wasn't quite elite, but . . . he was close.”

M thought about this for a moment, then he went to find Salome at the bar.

“Hello again, M.”

“Salome,” M said, thinking that she had gotten prettier since he had last kissed her, just before setting her into a cab on a wintery December morning some ten months earlier.

“It wasn't one of our people,” she said. “I can say that for a fact.”

“How could you possibly be certain of that? Were you all walking around
together in a group? Does Celise implant tracking cameras? The only thing you can say with any confidence is that
you
didn't do it.” M poured himself a few fingers from the nearest bottle, realized it was bourbon, looked unhappy about the discovery, but drank it anyway. “Well? Did you?”

“No.”

“I'm not sure I believe you.”

“It's the truth regardless. The White Queen doesn't give a fig about Ibis, didn't even know his name. If she wanted to start a war, I can assure you, she wouldn't have scrupled to something so small.”

“Maybe it's got nothing to do with politics. Maybe someone did Ibis out of some . . . personal animus.”

Salome smiled bitterly. “I'd think you know me better than that, and if you don't know me, you knew Ibis. He had his . . . side interests. I was far from the only one.”

“Yeah,” M said, voice gravelly. “He did.”

“And even if I'd lost my mind with jealousy,” she said in a tone of voice that suggested this was more impossible than implausible, “do you really suppose I'd be foolish enough to kill Abilene's favorite in Abilene's territory?”

“I never give anyone the benefit of the doubt when it comes to stupidity. People do very, very stupid things, and smart people more than most.” M pointed suddenly at one of the group, an inoffensive man wearing a splotch-colored hoodie. “Is that blood?”

“It's paint,” the man said quickly. “I'm a graffiti artist.”

“Make sure it stays that way,” M countered quickly, then moved to the other end of the bar before his mystery had time to fade.

“If it's one of them,” Cavill said, “they go in the ground. Tonight. No appellate judges, no calling up to the booth. A life for a life,” he said, and among the dozen or so people standing round him four were stupid enough to repeat it—though not Boy at least, M was happy to see.

“And if it's one of yours?”

“Why would we do it?”

“People kill each other for all sorts of reasons,” M said, picking a bit of lint off of Cavill's shirt. “Greed, envy, lust. A theological dispute, a fantasy-football rivalry, unresolved homoerotic tension.”

“Don't let him fuck with you,” Boy said. “He's just trying to stir up trouble so he can see what rises to the top.”

“I know it's been whole weeks since you've gotten blood on your knuckles, but perhaps you could put aside playing the savage for another twenty minutes or so, just in the interests of justice?”

“Justice? That's a strong word for a hypocrite. Let me ask you, M, is there anything you believe in standing up for?”

“I believe in trying to avoid murder if it's at all possible,” M said, though he shot Boy a look that seemed to refute the statement. “Perhaps that seems quaint.”

“You'd best get to being the hero,” Boy answered, “because I'm about ready to play the villain. Or do you think that little trick with the exit will work on me as well?”

M retreated from the scrum and smoked one of Flemel's cigarettes. Stockdale did the same.

“Well?” his apprentice asked expectantly. “Who did it?”

“Do I look like Phillip fucking Marlowe to you? I have no idea. That was a complete waste of time, I'm afraid, and the natives are getting restless.” He stamped out his smoke. “We'll have to do this the old-fashioned way—with black magic. Stockdale,” M began, speaking loud enough to grab the attention of the half mob, “if you'd hand me your switchblade, please. Flemel, head over to the bar and grab a pint glass and a bottle of the highest-proof liquor available. If the rest of you would be so kind as to join me round the body.”

Stockdale pulled his knife from a pocket of his leather jacket and threw it over to M. M knelt down beside Ibis and flipped open the blade.

“Are you,” Cavill asked, somewhere between furious and horrified, “you aren't really—”

“Going to decant Ibis's blood into this glass that Flemel just handed me? Yes, indeed I am. And then I'm going to have a sip of it—we all are,” M said, a quick spray of red spitting out as he made the first cut, the flow turning to a trickle, which he directed into the goblet. “And then we're going to ask Ibis if he'd like to tell us who it was that killed him.” M swirled the blood around in the glass, making an unappetizing rose tint with the corn liquor. “And anyone who refuses to take part, we're going to assume is the culprit, and we'll act
against him in a manner most savage.” M stood, gracefully so as not to spill anything from the glass. “This was what you wanted, wasn't it? Revenge?”

“Justice,” Cavill said, taking the glass from M.

“Form a circle around the body,” M said, “and concentrate on your memories of Ibis.”

These were people well used to ritual. These were people accustomed to ceremony, to chanting in unison, to esoteric liturgy. It did not take long for them to follow M's directions. The goblet went clockwise, till it came back around to Cavill, at which point M, still standing, grabbed it and began to chant.

“By dusk, by ether, by circle squared,” M said, drinking what was left in the glass, wincing and continuing on. “By monkfish's eye, by doe's horn, by blood shared,” his voice echoing loudly back from the night. “By inviolate mother, by the last prophet, by the diamond sutra.” Ibis's body took on a pale blue nimbus. “By Ilúvatar who lives alone, by the New Sun, by the Self-Created.” That nimbus stretched and expanded into a shadow of a man, and then the details took form—the bright green eyes, the towhead, the slow smile. “By the Lord of Cups, by the Yellow King, by the Walker in the Darkness.” Ibis stood fully formed beside M, unwounded, arms open, sad but not angry. “By the first seed, by the final frost, by the big bang and
Götterdämmerung
 . . .”

Anais sobbed terribly, broke ranks from the circle, and threw herself at the feet of her former lover. As her hands passed through him, she let out a wail that was as much as a confession.

“Oh, God, no,” Boy said, all trace of anger leaked out of her. “No.”

“I didn't mean to,” Anais screamed, the words all but indistinct amid her howls of despair. “I swear I didn't! It just happened!”

Easy to see how it might: Ibis too clever and not clever enough by half, a charming smile and wandering eyes; Anais long-suffering but long is not eternal, is it? An incautious text, or eyes held too long on Salome, one indiscretion more than Anais could overlook. A spark of rage in someone for whom the difference between a wish and a spell was thin as a razor.

Easy to see how it could happen, and not even so hard to forgive—but M had sworn an oath, and justice is an impartial bitch, after all. He clapped and Ibis dissipated. Anais screamed louder. The nimbus faded and coalesced around M's
hands. He brought them to his mouth and breathed into them, blowing a bubble of light from what had been Ibis's shade. He held it up to the moon, then let it burst above Anais's head. Anais screamed once more and fell silent.

“His memory will dilute every happy moment, every drag on every cigarette, every sip of liquor, every embrace, every orgasm, every sunny day and smile. You will carry him on your shoulder until the day you die, a day that I think might not be so long in coming. And should any man think this insufficient punishment,” M said, raising his voice suddenly and aiming it at the crowd, “any witch or wizard present who supposes my judgment less than just, you make good on your complaint now, immediately, or you forswear vengeance, in perpetuity, until the final unspooling of the cosmos.”