As Lie The Dead (12 page)

Phin was behind me and to my left. I wanted Wyatt there, watching my back, not laid up in the hospital. He’d have enjoyed this kind of tussle.

No one attacked. For half a minute, no one moved.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” I said.

Glances were exchanged. Most of them just stared. Not the sharpest crayons in the box.

One finally pushed his way to the front. Thick arms and legs were covered with intricate tattoos that disappeared beneath his shorts and wife-beater T. Even his neck was tattooed. His scalp was shaved clean, all the white-blotched hair relegated to his chin in a thick, bushy beard that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed all year. He cracked taped knuckles and put his hands on his square hips.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked. His voice matched his barrel-shaped body, deep and rumbling from somewhere low in his chest.

“Would you believe I’m a sports agent, out scouting talent?”

“Fuck no.”

“A man after my own vocabulary.”

Thick eyebrows scrunched together. “Like I said, who the fuck are you?”

I cocked my head to the side. “Just a concerned citizen, wandering around town to see who knows why there was a Halfie downtown at St. Eustachius
this morning, armed with a .45, a hand grenade, and a bad attitude.”

“Don’t know.”

He was too quick on the draw to be telling the truth. “Yeah? How about your friends?”

“Been here since dawn, bitch.”

“Now was that nice?” I took three steps forward, still out of arm’s reach of any single Halfie, but close to invading Tattoo Guy’s personal space. “After all, I didn’t come in here calling you names, dickwad.”

He growled. “You and your boyfriend looking to join up? That it?”

“Thanks, but I have a gym membership. It’s a nice place. You and your girlfriends should check it out sometime.”

“Not what I meant.” He bared his teeth, showing off a pair of brilliant fangs. He looked up and down the length of my figure, not bothering to hide his appraisal. His leer gave me the skeevies, but I shoved that particular ick into the back of my mind. Had to keep my head in the fight.

It occurred to me then that I’d made a deadly tactical error—no weapons larger than my single knife, which was out of reach in my ankle sheath.

Some flash of apprehension must have made its way into my expression, because Tattoo roared, and the gathered Halfies descended on us in a crush.

“Don’t let them bite you,” I shouted, and slammed an approaching boxer in the throat with the V between my thumb and first finger. His eyes bugged and he backpedaled, gasping.

Someone tackled me from behind, sending us both
to the mats. I tucked and rolled, dislodging the parasite from my back. Everything was moving so quickly—air, hands, fists, smells, sounds—I could only react. Swept two pairs of legs out from under unbalanced bodies. Knocked a few teeth loose. Split the skin on my knuckles punching someone in the chin. Snapped at least one neck. I was moving on mental instinct, if not quite physical instinct, stretching unpracticed muscles and tottering on unsure footing.

It was times like these I really missed my old body.

I’d lost track of Phin and had no time to look for him. Pressure struck the small of my back. I dropped to my knees, stunned by the blow. Metal glinted. I snatched up the weight bar, no weights yet attached, and swung it in a wide arc. It vibrated in my hands as it struck flesh time and again. Voices howled. Bone snapped. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Anger further fueled my movements.

Bar tucked close to my chest, I rolled again, twice, and then came up on my knees. Wobbled. Pulled the bar back, ready to swing it like a bat. Tattoo stood in front of me, one eye cut and bathed in blood, growling like a dog in a barn fight.

“Come and get me, motherfucker,” I snarled.

Tattoo laughed and quirked one eyebrow.

Shit. My head was ringing before I felt the blow. I dropped the bar, palms hitting the mat before I fell face-first into it. My lungs froze; they didn’t want to inhale. My vision blurred.
No, no, no. Keep it together, Evy
.

A battle cry erupted across the room, like nothing I’d ever heard before. Shrill and piercing, like the
screech of a furious bird. Challenging and angry, it filled every empty corner of that crusty old gym.

Air whooshed. Skin splatted against mats and walls. Men grunted and cried out. Someone grabbed my hair by the chopsticks knot and yanked. Oxygen screamed into my lungs as I was hauled upward, backward. Against someone’s sweaty chest. An arm snaked around my middle and held me tight, pinning my arms to my sides. The other arm was hard against my throat. The scratchy beard gave Tattoo away.

Mesmerized by the sight in front of me, I didn’t struggle at first. Phineas charged a pair of Halfies, his mottled angel wings expanded to their full width, the black polo hanging in shreds off his corded shoulders. He spun as he gained ground, using those wings to knock both Halfies ten feet away. One struck a wall, the other the corner of the boxing ring. Neither got back up. No one was getting up.

Phin pivoted, wings arched high and close to his body, and set his sights on me and Tattoo. He didn’t move, just stared—the perfect hunter observing his prey. I watched him, breathing carefully, waiting for a sign. Any indication of how he wanted me to move.

“What the hell are you?” Tattoo asked. Fear colored his voice—a beautiful sound.

“Someone you shouldn’t have pissed off today,” Phin replied, the sound reedy, almost inhuman.

Tattoo’s breathing increased, so heavy my entire body moved with the force of it. Made it harder to breathe myself, with his arms so tight around me. I glared at Phin, hoping he got the gist of the silent message:
Move it along before he chokes me to death
.

“Any closer and I’ll bite her,” Tattoo said, his
breath hot against my ear. And reeking vaguely of dead fish.

Phin’s nostrils flared. “You’ll be dead before you taste a drop of blood.”

“If I get bit by a Halfie,” I said, gasping for air, “does that make me a Fourthie?”

“Eh?” Tattoo grunted. His hold loosened.

Phin blinked, twitched his head left. I kicked Tattoo’s left shin with all my might. Something snapped. He yelped, and his grip loosened more. I let my legs fold, let all my weight go, and dropped to the mat like a stone. Rolled sideways, even as Phin sailed over me, a streak of black and tan and long feathers.

Skin smacked against skin. Tattoo shrieked. I came up on my knees, sucking air into my starving lungs. My vision blurred briefly, and I nearly fell over sideways. Another shriek.

“Don’t kill him,” I said.

The scene cleared. Phin had Tattoo pinned to the wall, one hand curled tight around Tattoo’s throat like a bracket. Tattoo’s massive frame hung at least six inches off the ground, toes pointed, eyes bulging, his bald head starting to resemble a tomato. How the hell did Phin have enough strength in one arm to do that? I couldn’t fathom it. Almost didn’t believe I was seeing it.

“We need answers,” I said. I used the edge of a bench to lever to my feet. The world stayed upright this time. The stink of Tattoo’s sweat was all over me. Nasty.

“Ask anything,” Phin replied. “He’ll answer.”

“Not if you snap his neck. I have a better idea.”

Phin let go.

Tattoo slumped to the mat, gasping and choking. For a moment, I swore he was sobbing.

I found a long iron ladder in the rear corner of the locker room that went straight up to the roof. The key, stupidly enough, was on a nail right by the padlock that sealed the hatch on the inside. After Tattoo was secured, hands and feet, by half a roll of tape, Phin hauled him to the roof like a practiced fireman. He’d removed the tattered remains of the black polo, once again showing off a perfectly sculpted torso.

Maybe his secret day job was as a personal trainer.

Tattoo yelped and squealed beneath his tape gag the moment the afternoon sun scorched his skin. Phin dumped him on the soft tar roof and spread out his magnificent wings, creating a small space of shade. I watched, grinning, as Tattoo squirmed into a fetal position to stay out of the direct sun.

“Those have to hurt,” I said, pointing to the patches of blistered skin on his bare arms and legs.

He grunted something that could have been “Fuck you.”

Phin lowered one corner of his wing. A patch of light shone down on Tattoo’s thigh and added another blistered burn. Tattoo’s scream was muffled by the gag. He wiggled his leg out of reach of the deadly rays. It took more sunlight to kill Halfies than to kill a full vampire. That gave us plenty of time to play.

I squatted next to Tattoo’s head and thumped him between the eyes. “Play nice, asshole, or you’ll be sporting the world’s worst suntan.” He blinked, and I
took that as an acceptance. “Do you know who I am?”

He cut his eyes down at the tape covering his mouth. I grabbed the edge and ripped it off. He hissed and licked raw lips.

“Answer her,” Phin said. The dangerous, inhuman tone was gone, but a sense of anger still lingered in his voice.

“Everyone’s talking,” Tattoo said. “New Hunter in town that no one can catch. She disappeared from a prison cell. Killed an elf mage. Some say she can fly, others say she knows magic.” He squinted up at me, hesitant. “You her?”

I cocked my head. “What do you think?”

“If you ain’t her, you’re crazy, walking into a room full of Fangs like you did.”

“Half-Fangs.”

“Fuck you.”

Phin shifted his wings. Sunlight struck Tattoo’s legs. He yelped. Skin scorched. He tried to roll but had nowhere to go except the slowly shrinking shade created by Phin. I let him twitch awhile longer and then tapped Phin’s leg. His wings went back up.

“So what have we learned?” I asked Tattoo.

He grunted. “Is he an angel?”

“Why? You hear a choir singing?”

He looked up, over, all around, as if actually listening for music. “No.”

So much for useful information from this guy. I snapped my fingers in front of him. “Back to me, okay? Have you seen a Halfie recently who wears a blue sports jersey and who was probably the one saying I disappeared from a prison cell?”

“Knew it was you,” he said. Awe seeped into his face, creating a truly disturbing sight, mixed with the tattoos and bloodlust. “Seen him last night. Came in with two other kids, bunch of punks looking for their balls, talking shit.”

“Why’d he try to kill me this morning?”

“Ask him.”

“I did, but I didn’t like his answer and killed him. So now I’m asking you.”

Tattoo flinched at the “killed him” part of my statement. “Bragging rights, probably. Looking to up his credit with his people, ’cause he’s so green.”

“Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’d buy that if he hadn’t brought along a hand grenade. It’s hard to make a name for yourself if you’re being scraped off the roof of an underground parking garage.”

“Is someone recruiting?” Phin asked.

Tattoo bared his teeth at Phin, confused. “Recruiting for what?”

“You tell us.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” I said. “Halfies like to brag, because you know you’ll never be as strong or powerful as real vampires. You have to make your bones by picking fights with the Triads. Anything to prove how badass you are. I want to know who’s been talking about the Triads.”

“Look,” Tattoo said, sweat beading on his upper lip, “the kid in the jersey was talking shit last night. He mentioned Park Place, near the old waterfront.”

I knew the area. Twenty blocks north of St. Eustachius, a half mile of abandoned shops and structures lined the west bank of the Anjean River, several
blocks deep. They were representations of Mercy’s Lot’s heyday of yesteryear—brick buildings and turn-of-the-century architecture, two old stage theaters that closed when the river flooded its banks fifty years ago, dozens of acres of property no one could develop. Good place for Halfies and other unsavory sorts to hide from prying eyes.

“What about this place?” I asked.

Tattoo chewed his lower lip, drawing blood. His chin trembled. He looked positively sick. “Said anybody who wanted to be somebody should be there Saturday night, midnight, for a meeting. Open to any nonhumans who had a bone to pick with the Triads.”

Ding-ding-ding! We had a winner. Park Place, tomorrow. Midnight. “Where exactly?”

“Building on the corner of Park and Howard.”

“Who’s organizing this?” I asked.

“Don’t know.”

Phin lowered his entire right wing without my having to ask. Tattoo shrieked and wriggled like a fish on a hook. Anywhere he went, he couldn’t find enough shadow to avoid more second-degree burns. Burns that were quickly turning to third-degree, scorching naked flesh on his thighs and knees. The odor of burning meat made my nose tingle.

“I don’t know!” Tattoo wailed the last syllable of his declaration, and the word trailed off into a sob. “Stop. I don’t know.”

I twisted my head to look up at Phin. He watched Tattoo with the eye of a scientist observing an experiment. “You believe him?” I asked.

“He has no loyalties to protect here,” Phin replied.
“No one to lie for unless he’s already been actively recruited.”

“I haven’t,” Tattoo sobbed. “I swear, I haven’t. Cover me up.”

“I think I believe him,” I said. “Say good night, John Boy.”

I slapped the strip of tape back down over Tattoo’s mouth. Phin retracted his wings, tucked them back against his body, and retreated three steps. I stood and followed, giving Tattoo plenty of room to flail. The Halfie squealed behind his gag, his entire body convulsing. Exposed skin blistered red, then black, under the glare of the sun.

Hand over mouth and nose, I watched with no satisfaction as another life infected by the vampire parasite came to a fiery end. His hair caught fire and scorched into a shrinking mass of black and gray. Black flesh smoked and peeled, leaving layers of exposed meat and muscle. Tattoo’s gag-muffled scream seemed to go on and on, even after he stopped struggling.

The sound of death didn’t rise above the din of the city and this neighborhood of lost, lonely souls.