Ariel (27 page)

* * *

New York is a big city. There's too much of it to search realistically; almost anywhere I wanted to hide after leaving the Empire State Building would prove reasonably safe. Or as safe as anything ever is, which isn't very.

I hid in the manager's apartment of an old brick apartment house three blocks from the Empire State Building, just off Fifth Avenue. I collapsed on the musty bed, clutching Fred close to me.

Just before I became unconscious I heard the terrifying shriek of a huge nightbird in the distance. Its name appeared in formless letters, black on black, fading out as exhaustion forced me into sleep:

Shai-tan.

Eighteen

 
.  .  . In which is continued the narrative of the misfortune that befell our brave knight.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

Wedges of sunlight escaping from between the tall buildings, came through the window to rest upon my face, and the jolt of awakening whisked away the twisting memories of sleep. I sat up. The pain in my jaw had lessened only slightly. My hands looked like raw hamburger. The blisters had popped long ago. Blood crusted my palms. I rubbed white granules from the corners of my eyes.

I tried to get out of bed and my calves cramped. I hopped back onto the musty, red-and-black bedspread to take the weight off the muscles. The bed creaked in protest. Something clinked beside me. Fred. I picked up the sword and looked at it. The scabbard was cracked three inches from the tip. Wood showed through the black lacquer in places. I drew the blade and held the handle close to my eye, closing the other one and sighting down the curved length. No bends, no nicks, a few scratches. A small smear of blood at the tip. It blurred as tears formed in my eyes. I clenched my hands, one on the scabbard, the other on the sword handle, and slid the blade back in. The tears came then, slipping through the cracks in my restraint. The fingers of my left hand rubbed the scabs on the knuckles of the right. No, no, don't punch something. That won't do you any good.

I took three shaky breaths. It calmed me down, some. I set Fred down and rubbed my calves. They felt like closely packed rubber balls. My leg muscles began knotting when I got up again, but at least they didn't cramp. I went into the bathroom to look in a mirror. I stared stupidly at it for a long while, then lowered my head, shook it, and walked painfully out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind me as if it would block the view from memory. I looked as if I had miraculously managed to drag myself away from a plane crash.

I gazed down at my hands. They balled into fists, almost as if recoiling from the sight of me. I wanted to smash something. I wanted to see something break. There was a metal lamp on the writing desk on the other side of the room. I picked it up and went back into the bathroom. A stranger faced me on the other side of the sink. His face was varying patches of black, blue, and sickly green. Blood had crusted down around both nostrils and both eyes were blue-black. His jaw was swollen and greenish on the left side. His long hair was filthy and matted, so dirty it was hard to tell what the true color was. His clothes were worn through and filthy. He held a lamp in both hands.

I closed my eyes in a slow blink and opened them to see the haggard stranger completing the motion. I tightened my grip on the lamp (he tightened), reared back (he reared back defensively), and swung. He swung as I did and our lamps met with a jolt. Traitor, traitor,
traitor
! The stranger broke into a hundred irregular fragments with the teeth-sliding-on-metal-file sound of shattering glass. I pushed the lamp away. It hit the wall where the mirror had been, bounced against the sink, and splashed into the open toilet bowl.

I grabbed Fred and left. As I passed the bathroom door pieces of mirror winked at me knowingly. Like unicorn hooves, I thought. My mouth tightened. I left the apartment.

* * *

From the tops of trashcans along the street I gathered metal boxes and cans, anything that had collected even a little rainwater. I poured their contents into a round metal cookie box and used it to wash the blood and dirt from my face and hands. The remaining cloudy water I used to clean the dried blood from Fred. On the blade were fingerprints I hadn't noticed earlier. I wiped them off, face tight.

The streets were empty of life. The only sound was the wind whistling between the buildings.

I muttered to myself as I half-stumbled along the sidewalk like a bum speaking to invisible listeners, not caring, but wanting to cry. The mirror pieces whispered to me from up the block.

By nightfall I had meandered my way northwest of the Empire State Building, muttering to myself on the dark sidewalks, searching for food. The predatory scream of a huge bird froze me. I jumped back, flattening myself in shadow against a recessed doorway. A dark, massive shape lowered from the night sky, blotting out stars. I caught my breath. Wings beat with the sound of strong gusts flapping a huge flag. The shadow swooped down. It let forth another echoing scream. Molten eyes blurred past. I smelled hot brass. By the time I thought to look for a rider it had lifted again, heading off toward distant skyscraper peaks.

After a while I found I could breathe again, but my heartbeat stubbornly refused to slow. Ten minutes went by before I worked up the nerve to step onto the sidewalk again and scan the starry sky. Nothing.

But it had left behind a prickly sensation that spread up my spine until it felt as though hairy tarantulas crept across the back of my neck. After several minutes of nervously looking at the distant, dark outlines of the cityscape, I began to walk. I found myself standing in front of an old taxi stopped forever in the midst of a right turn, and wondered what had happened to the time it took me to get there. I shook my head, opened the door, and clambered into the back seat. I shut my eyes and sobbed silently until I fell asleep.

* * *

I woke up hungry. That was my first realization as I grew aware of my surroundings. God, I want something in my stomach. Anything. Grass. Cardboard. Yes, cardboard would be fine. My eyes were sore and heavy from crying the night before.

I emerged from the yellow-and-black taxi carrying Fred blade-side-up in my left hand. My eyes watered in the sunlight and I turned my head and shrugged my shoulder, wiping my eyes on my sleeves.

Where to now?

I knew, of course. I looked at Fred, gripped the scabbard tighter, and headed southeast.

* * *

On the way I found a delivery truck parked on a back street. SHOP-N-GO, it said on the side. The double doors at the back were padlocked. I broke into a garage and came out with a pair of bolt cutters.

The truck smelled stale inside. I paid no attention, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.

Lunch was Spam on crackers, cold Hormel chili, and a small can of chicken and noodles. I washed it down with canned orange juice and vomited it up in five minutes. I tried eating a little slower next time.

I felt better when I was finished. Taking one last sip of orange juice, I mournfully said goodbye to the truck and resumed my walk, feeling refreshed and determined.

The two-mile walk was a montage of absurd thoughts. We're committed now, Pete, old boy. Yeah, well. Shoulda been committed years ago. Ah, New York in the summer! The neon lights no longer shine bright, but God, is there magic in the air! My vision began to mist and I felt the burn of more tears brewing.

Walk. Time for that later.
I felt the way a long-distance runner feels when he hits second wind. I was giddy, almost drunk. Exhilarated. Fuck it; I could take on the world. Having an objective, no matter how ill-defined, was better than the helpless wandering, the wondering what to do next. I drew Fred, slashing a wide, neck-high arc, and let the motion continue to my right as I turned my wrist and brought the blade down in an overhead strike, "splitting the reed." I hacked at an invisible opponent's jugular, gutted the rider from crotch to throat, rolled the necromancer's head from his shoulders, and returned the blade to the scabbard without looking.

The swordplay opened up the raw scabs on my palms. I looked at the slowly pooling blood, thin and watery from pus.

A block away from the Empire State Building I saw five armed men. Their backs were to me as they peered around the corner of a brownstone building, looking at the skyscraper a few hundred yards away. I didn't bother to move quietly as I came up behind them. One noticed me and tapped a comrade on the shoulder. They turned to face me, hands going to swords. I kept my hands at my sides and cleared my throat. "Hello," I said. I nodded toward the Empire State Building. "You've got a friend of mine up there. I'm going to kill you." My heart raced at the sound of my own words, but I drew in a deep breath and resolved to go through with it.
If I do this right,
said the rational half,
I might get myself captured and end up where I started from.
Then again, I might get killed. If only for Ariel's sake, I didn't want that. I needed to fight incompetently, badly enough so that they would subdue me with only a little difficulty. The necromancer had said that all captured loners were to be brought to him. I must allow myself to be captured. I was flattering myself, I realized, by thinking that I was in any condition to dictate the events of a multiple-opponent fight, but I felt resolved nonetheless. I walked forward and all five drew in response. None seemed to want to attack. I hawked and spat. What was their problem? I couldn't possibly have been an intimidating sight.

One man, black-bearded, stepped forward, rapier firmly in hand. The others fanned out behind him, trying to form a semicircle around me with the building at my back, no place for me to run. Black Beard's eyes remained steadily on my sword. His was a straight, one-handed blade, lighter and faster than mine. Fred was sturdier and more powerful because of the two-handed grip. One strong engagement might snap the rapier. His eyes showed him weighing advantages and disadvantages.

Two of the others had successfully flanked me on my right side, and the wall of the building was no more than four feet from my right shoulder as I faced Black Beard, left foot forward. Letting myself become enclosed had been stupid, but I'd had no choice. I hoped the necromancer's standing orders would make them cautious. Rather than be rushed—or possibly stabbed—from my blind left side, as I knew I would be any second now, I turned so that my back was to the wall and stepped slowly toward Black Beard. The slight shift of his eyes away from me revealed what I'd been expecting: somebody coming from behind. I turned, and there he was, Scottish claymore at ready. I brought Fred up and sword met sword. He was open for a fraction of a second and I jabbed, intentionally slowing it. He backpedaled and deflected my blade. A blow to the back of my head sent me reeling. I'd expected that. I whirled around again, dazed. A voice in my head said, oh, good, they're not going to kill you, because they've had a few opportunities by now.

I saw the right hook heading for my chin. Reflex is almost impossible for a normal person to check; I blocked it without thinking. Then I dropped my arms and the next punch connected. My knees buckled. I was only stunned, but I fell to the curb.
I could have blocked it,
I thought with some satisfaction as I sank to the ground and lay there, motionless.
I could have.

* * *

I kept my eyes closed, listening.

"I don't believe this."

"What the fuck is his problem?"

"I don't know. That was weird, Mac."

"Yeah."

Silence for a few seconds.

"Look, we can't just leave him here. If he talks, they'll know we're here, or at least suspect. They'll tighten up security, maybe send out more patrols."

"So what do we do?"

"Take him with us."

"You can't be serious."

A strong, gruff voice. "Mac, if we take him to Deecy and he gets away, we're finished."

"Not to Deecy. Just to the warehouse. You heard him—he's not one of them. He thinks we are."

Murmurs. The voice—Mac's, I assumed—continued. "Look, if he is with them we can do away with him any time. If he's not, he might be able to tell us something useful."

"We were only supposed to scout," said a dubious voice.

"And that means getting information," finished Mac. "Come on, give me a hand with him."

Strong arms lifted me. I tried to remain limp.

"This is bullshit, Mac. We were supposed to be back yesterday."

"You got a date? You saw what was going on yesterday. We would have been seen trying to get back. Something was up, I tell you. We can't chance leading them to Deecy."

"I still think this is risky."

"And coming to New York in the first place wasn't?"

After what must have been at least a dozen blocks of carrying me they stopped. I heard what sounded like a huge, rusty door opening, and was carried out of the light and into a cool space, where I was deposited on a cold concrete floor. I was startled by the sound of horses whinnying; I hoped no one saw me jump.

"You can get up now." Mac's voice reverberated in the large space. "We know you're awake."

I opened my eyes. We were in a large warehouse. Five horses were tied to support posts near one wall. The garage-like aluminum door was open to let in the morning sunlight. One man turned and closed it, leaving the inside concrete-gray. Before me was Black Beard, rapier at his side. He must have been Mac. The rest of them clustered around him, watching me warily. I stood up, rubbing my chin. Goddamn; another sore spot, another bruise.

"Who are you?" asked Mac.

"My sword."

He shook his head. "Who are you?"

"Give me my sword first," I insisted.

He smiled. "Give him his sword, Walt," he ordered. The lithe man with the Scottish claymore looked dubious. Mac looked around at him. "Go on," he prodded.

Walt produced Fred and tossed it to me. "Okay. My name's Pete Garey. Happy?"

Mac shook his head. "What are you doing in New York?"

"Wasting my time with you, right now. Look, I've got things I need to do. It's obvious you people aren't who I thought you were—"

"Who did you think we were?"

I said nothing.

"From the Empire State Building, maybe?" he prompted.

I lowered my guard a little. "All right, look. I ve got a friend up there. They captured us and I got away. I want to get her out. Now please, just let me go."

He considered. "No, we can't. You might be saying this so you can get back to report. We can't allow that." He gripped the handle of his rapier meaningfully.

"I'm not lying. And I don't have time for a stand-off. She's dying and I've got to get her out of there."

"How do you know she's dying?"

His calmness infuriated me. "Because, you shithead, she's my Familiar; she's a unicorn; because I was with her and got away, and now I need to get back, because the longer I wait, the less her chances are—now get the fuck out of my way. I stepped forward. He didn't move. I drew Fred.

"What makes you think you'll do any better this time?" asked one of them.

"He let us take him," Mac said. "Didn't you? If you were captured, they might take you back up there. It figures." He frowned, folding his arms, and stepped out of my way. "No, let him go. Somebody wants to commit suicide, it's none of our business."

Walt glared at me. "Mac, we can't just let him go. Even if he's telling the truth, he can tell them we were here, if they torture him."

Mac stared at me evenly. "He won't tell them. He doesn't know anything about us anyhow." He stepped back, turned away from me, and raised the warehouse door. "You can go if you want. But I think we can help you."