Bone Song (28 page)

I thought so.

A swagger entered the man's walk as he reached the girl's bench, produced a smile, and said, “Hi, can I sit here?”

The girl, shivering slightly, gave a shrug. She glanced up at him, then away.

“Don't worry about me, girl,” the man added. “I'm a preacher. Nothing to worry about.”

Preacher. Perhaps Donal had it wrong.

Do you feel the bones?

Well, now that you mention it . . .

Head down, Donal drifted closer. Analyzing the man's stance, he thought there might be an iron rod or truncheon in the right coat pocket. The gun was on the man's left hip, presumably butt-forward; he'd left his long coat open despite the cold.

That was a shame. A stupid or overconfident man might have buttoned the coat up, hindering access to the weapon.

Closer now.

“Looks to me like you need a friend.” The man's tone was sympathetic. “And a hot meal. I know a house where—”

That was when he noticed Donal.

“You.” His lips pulled back from his teeth, and the chill that entered his deepening voice told Donal everything he needed to know. “Back off. Now.”

“Huh?” Donal blinked.

The man was rising from the bench, uncoiling, hand reaching inside his coat, spitting as he said, “You. Fucking. Want.
This?
”

Lapsing into single-word sentences meant he was about to attack, and the time had collapsed to zero.

Now.

As the man's hand tightened and began to pull the gun out, Donal's mental state flipped. He was pure reptile as his left hand smacked palm-first into the man's face, then he grabbed for the gun hand as he hook-punched his right fist to the side of the man's neck, using every ounce of torque from the hips. The man dropped, already out.

But Donal followed him down knees-first. There was a sickening crunch.

Finally, Donal stripped the gun from the man's hand. You don't take the weapon away until they're no longer capable of using it.

Then he searched the unconscious man's clothes, finding an extending steel truncheon—that might prove handy—and a handful of loose shells. Unprofessional.

But the man's real profession was befriending young girls before introducing them to the wonderful world of turning tricks. Then he could take the larger cut of everything they earned, while they sank deeper and deeper into that life.

Not this time.

The man had a wallet, and Donal pulled out all the notes and eight-sided Illurian coins. He handed them over to the girl.

“Here,” he said. “I believe he wanted you to have this.”

“Mister . . . I'm sorry.”

“For what?” said Donal. “He was going to turn you into a victim, but you're not that, you're a person, and you
will stand up
for yourself, all right?”

The prone man groaned.

“All right?” Donal continued. “And you'll buy yourself food and make a phone call. Do they have the Sisters of Death in this city?”

The order was used to dealing with runaways. And they did not do brainwashing: it was literally against their religion.

“I guess . . .”

“Then go back up to the main shops,” said Donal, “and do that now. Get something to eat. Make that call.”

“Yes, sir.” The girl got off the seat. “Okay.”

She began to move toward the pedestrian ramp. Then she looked back at the prone man. “What will you—”

“Just get going.”

Ducking her head, she turned and left, climbing toward the concourse levels, which at least were bright and safe for the immediate moment. Donal had a feeling she would follow his suggestions. He could do no more.

There was a twitch from the man's hand.

Donal hauled the man up to a sitting position, legs still outstretched on the cold platform. He glanced along the platform: no one was watching; every waiting passenger had blanked out their perceptions of what was happening here.

Working the pressure points at the back of the neck, Donal brought the man back to painful half awareness.

“If I'd left you here unconscious,” Donal whispered into the guy's ear as his eyelids fluttered, “you would have died. You think anyone would worry about trash?”

“Uh. . .”

“If you come back here, you die.”

The man groaned, swallowed, opened his mouth, and gave a kind of shortened gasp. Donal's hands squeezed tighter.

“If you go back to running the girls, you die.”

Only a croak sounded now. Donal released his grip a little.

“Did you run them from a house? The girls?”

“Yes . . .”

“Which road?”

“Gruytliwik Avenue.”

“Number?”

“Huh. . .”

“House number. What was it?”

“Seven . . . teen.”

“Go back there,” said Donal, “and you die. Do you understand?”

The man gave a painful nod.

“Then get up.” Donal hauled him to his feet. “And go.”

“Where . . .”

“Out of here. Out of your life.”

“Yes . . .”

Instead of heading toward the ramp, the man stumbled to a yellow-painted metal door and—with difficulty—hauled it open and half-fell through. His footsteps dully clanged down metal steps. Donal followed.

It was an emergency exit down to a grubby road tunnel, where stinking garbage was piled at the sides, next to the dank walls. This was the rottenness that Donal had known must live even at the core of Silvex City.

Donal watched as the injured man tottered out of sight. Perhaps another shadow moved within the darkness, some predator hunting another of his own kind, sensing injury and weakness. Donal looked at the gun in his hand, back down into the darkness, then shrugged.

He pushed the heavy door shut.

Then Donal walked back onto the platform, just as a cheerful rumble sounded along the silvery tracks. A train slid into the station. Passengers began disembarking, some with suitcases, for they had flights to catch.

Donal walked up into the concourse as part of a large extended family who were chatting among themselves about their upcoming vacation, lively despite the late hour, accepting Donal's presence as sheer chance. They ascended from the station.

Then Donal was back among the glittering facades that promised a civilized world where two-legged rats did not survive, or so people innocently hoped.

And, illegally for a civilian here, he was now armed.

A
lexa caught up with Laura
in the steamy, overheated canteen. New notices proclaimed that this was
VOLKOWAN'S RESTAURANT
, but it was the same old canteen with the same old food, now cooked by an outside company instead of civilian employees of the department.

Laura had no need to eat, but she did have to keep her contacts happy, to befriend and manipulate those who were useful to the task force—and to her ongoing career. When you got to the level of Commander, there was no other way to play the game.

Understanding that much, Alexa did not care. Her goal was to reach the level of Commander herself, and to be younger when it happened than Laura was now. Oh, and she wanted to be alive when the promotion occurred.

Snitching on a fellow officer who was guilty of poor judgment—now that was rarely the best way to advance one's career. Harald had endangered Donal, Alexa was sure of it. What she ought to do was confront Harald first, without telling anybody else, however dangerous a course of action that might be.

But there was another worry. Xalia.

Laura was saying good-bye to a precinct captain whom Alexa didn't recognize. Alexa waited until the captain was leaving before walking up to Laura.

“Hi there.”

“Oh, Alexa. Is everything all right?”

“Kind of. . . . I haven't heard from Xalia at all. No one's seen her and she hasn't checked in.”

“Don't worry,” said Laura. “I know what she's—No. Wait.”

“What is it?”

Laura was looking at her watch. “She hasn't reappeared?”

“No.” Alexa, remembering her trance and the lip-reading, made an intuitive leap. “Does it have something to do with the commissioner? What you've got her doing?”

“Why do you say that?”

Both of them were glancing around, checking that no one could overhear their conversation. But they were far enough away from any wall or pillar that a wraith might be lurking inside. The floor in this portion of the restaurant was covered in a kind of hemp matting that played havoc with stiletto heels but was good insulation.

“I guessed.”

“All right.” Laura looked around, spotted a black internal phone affixed to a blue-tiled wall. “I need to call and check on Xalia. Come with me.”

“Thanks.” Alexa walked alongside Laura. “Does Donal feel the same about Vilnar as you do?”

There was a crinkling of Laura's eyebrow and the beginnings of a smile before she caught herself. “What do you mean?”

Alexa let out a breath.

“I mean, either Donal's a spy for Vilnar, or Donal's your spy in Vilnar's camp. Am I right?”

Laura shook her head. Reaching the phone, she picked up the handset and asked the switchboard operator to put her through to Wraith Resonance. She waited, then said, “Commander Steele here. Can you locate Xalia for . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

“What do you mean?” she said then. “How long? What happened to her?”

Laura listened for a moment longer, then thanked the operator and replaced the handset.

“Shit.”

“What happened?” asked Alexa.

“Xalia's hurt. Can't speak, and won't be able to until she's spent time in a healing field of some kind. Could be days, or longer.”

Alexa and Laura looked at each other, both thinking of Sushana lying in her hospital bed. The team wasn't doing well.

“I'm going to try to see her now,” added Laura. “You'll get back on duty?”

“Yes, of course. And Donal's on our side, right?”

“Bank on it.” There was no hesitation in Laura's voice. “If at some time in the future I'm not around and Donal is, treat him the same way as me, all right?”

“Um...Right.”

“I'll see you later.” Laura strode quickly out of the restaurant, her pace quickening until she was out of Alexa's sight.

Alexa remained staring in the direction that Laura had gone. Then she picked up the internal phone that Laura had used and asked for Viktor's extension. There was a single ring, then Viktor's voice:
“Hello?”

“Hey, it's me. Alexa. Are you going to be on duty for another hour or so?”

“I'm right here, me,”
answered Viktor.
“Why do you ask?”

“I'm going out for a late supper.” Alexa didn't want to lie to Viktor. Perhaps she would grab something while she was out. “Can I bring you back anything?”

“No. Wait—maybe a bagel. Anything.”

“Sure thing. You all right?”

“Kind of.”

Alexa could hear the pain in Viktor's voice. She dared not say anything about Xalia being hurt. The poor guy was suffering enough already, and Viktor had always liked Xalia, however provocative the wraith got.

“Take it easy, big guy.”

“Yeah.”

A click sounded and the line was dead. Alexa rehooked the handset. Then she followed the route that Laura had taken.

There was a group of people waiting near the first elevator shaft. Alexa hurried on along the corridor to Elevator 7. Alexa stepped inside the lift field.

*Where ya going?*

“Ground floor, Gertie. Thanks.”

Alexa closed her eyes as she fell through the shaft. Gertie was a sensitive wraith who had read the stress in Alexa's voice and knew she was in a hurry.

*There you are.*

Gertie pushed Alexa out into the foyer.

“Thanks again.”

Then Alexa went out past the desk sergeant, through the huge doors, and past the deathwolves. She descended the big steps to the street, where two people were climbing out of a purple taxi. Alexa leaned inside and called to the driver, “You okay to pick up another fare?”

“Sure thing, doll. Where ya headed?”

“The hospital, please.”

The two people waited while the driver wrote out their receipt, then they paid the exact fare, no tip. The driver scowled but said nothing until the plainclothes officers were climbing the steps up to HQ and Alexa was sliding into the backseat.

“Skinflints,” he muttered.

Internal Security,
Alexa nearly answered, but kept her tongue. The problem with being a cop who investigated other cops was that you could never step out of line yourself. You had too many enemies who would love to get their own back.

“Visiting somebody?” the driver asked, pulling the taxi out into the traffic.

“Kind of,” answered Alexa.

Perhaps she should buy flowers from the hospital shop on the way up. But Harald was the one she needed to talk to, not Sushana, and what Alexa had to say would not be softened by a cheap gift.

Harald, I think you're in deep, deep shit.

But what mattered to Alexa was the danger threatening Donal.

Donal's cab halted before the wide gateway. The last two hundred yards had been a slow zigzag down a sloping ice-smooth switchback, with the driver growing nervous. There were few streetlights: a discouragement for idle pedestrians.

“They call it Billionaire's Row,” the driver said. “Ain't too comfortable around here myself.”

“Not your biggest customers, huh?”

“Nah. They got their own limos and such, right?”

“Gotcha,” said Donal. “Look, you can let me out here. No need to drive inside.”

The driver's shoulders slumped in relief, and Donal wondered what kind of reputation these mansions had. He counted out coins while the driver wrote the receipt.

“Keep the change.”

“Hey, thanks. You want I should bump up the amount on the receipt?”

“Nah, that's all right.” Donal slid out of the seat.

“Take it easy,” said the driver. “Have a good night.”

“And you.” Donal stepped out onto the strangely smooth road and closed the taxi door. He looked up.

A strange glimmering hung suspended across the night sky, that startling black curtain pricked with yellow and pale-blue stars. When another scarlet meteor slipped across the night's vault, accompanied by a paler counterpart of identical velocity, Donal realized there was a vast layer of glass overhead, insulating the street and the city from the true sky above.

The taxi's engine changed note as the driver maneuvered through a five-point turn so that he was facing back up the snaking hillside street. Then he stopped, watching Donal: checking that Donal was all right.

Donal raised a hand and walked into the open gateway between the big pillars. Immediately, the hairs rose on his head and across his entire body as he passed through some powerful hex scan.

He stopped, then walked on, his shoes crunching on gravel.

Pale shapes slipped across the gravel in silence and sat down, panting. Their eyes glowed crimson rather than the amber of their Tristopolitan counterparts.

Deathwolves, privately owned.

After a few moments, Donal decided they weren't going to attack. He took one pace toward the house, then another. The wolves rose and walked alongside him.

The bronze front doors swung open as Donal reached the silver-chased marble steps. A tall uniformed man stood smiling.

“I'm Hix, sir. Welcome, and please come inside.”

“Hix.”

“That's right, sir.”

Donal walked into the vast hallway, which was richly appointed, as he had imagined.

“Any relation to Rix, the driver?”

“My cousin, sir, I'm afraid to say.”

“But he spoke highly of you.” Donal smiled.

“Ahem. . . Very good.”

There were statues and paintings—nice to look at, but it was after one o'clock in the morning and Donal was tired. Hix led the way to spiraling stairs and gestured for Donal to go first.

The stairs came to life as Donal stepped on the first tread. They flowed upward, carrying him to the upstairs landing. There, he waited for Hix.

“Just along here, sir.”

“Shouldn't we keep our voices down?”

“Sir? Oh, no. There's no else here. Not in this wing of the house.”

“Ah. Of course.”

Hix stepped inside a room and held the door open. Donal followed.

The bed was huge, with soft pillows and a gold frame, over which a pale-blue canopy gently stirred, though there was no draft in here.

“The bathroom is through there.” Hix gestured toward an inner door. “And have you eaten? Would you care for a drink?”

Donal nodded toward a cabinet. “Is that a wet bar?”

“Absolutely, sir. And if you check at the bottom of that wardrobe, you'll find your garments have already been hung up for you.”

“Well, Thanatos. I could get used to this.”

“Very good, sir.”

“What does that mean?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What does ‘very good, sir' mean? Does it mean I've made a witty remark? Does it mean you're having a nice night?”

“I couldn't say, sir.”

“Don't worry, Hix. I apologize.”

“Sir, there's no need to do that.”

“Nevertheless, I'm sorry. And I'm grateful that you're putting me up for the night.” Donal checked his watch. “What's left of it. Don't let me keep you from your own bed.”

“Sir.”

Hix gave a practiced bow, then backed out of the room, closing the doors shut behind him. They clicked into place, then clicked again: additional locks sliding into place.

Trapped.

But Donal was in the place he was supposed to be, and he was very tired. He looked around for light switches, seeing nothing appropriate.

Shit. How did he work the damned lights?

Is it always like this in a foreign country?

Tiny flames flickered in the bedside lamp, but there were no knobs, switches, or buttons. After a moment, Donal took a guess and snapped his fingers, feeling foolish.

Every light in the room switched off.

Donal stripped and got into bed. He lay down, and slid into . . .

Do you feel the—Yes, they're everywhere.

. . . sleep.

Soft beeping and moans and twittering sounded from monitor sprites hovering above the patients. Harald held Sushana's hand while she slept. The IV tube into her arm delivered the narcotic coma she needed to kill the pain and allow her body to heal—of external wounds, at least.

A pool of light surrounded the bed; beyond it, curtained-off beds remained in darkness while their occupants slept and, for the most part, crept their way toward death.

Then Alexa came walking down the aisle between the beds, re-pocketing her golden detective shield that she'd had to flash to be allowed inside. Visiting hours were long over, and Sushana was a colleague rather than a relative.

But it was Harald that Alexa had come to see.

“What is it?” Harald appeared surprised, then stone-faced, clamping down on his expression. “Has something happened?”

“Is that what you're expecting?” Alexa remained standing, having few other psychological advantages over an ex-marine with so many years' experience. “That something bad might have happened?”

“What do you mean?”