Ghosts of Manhattan (35 page)

Gabriel looked up, watching the revelers through the window with a sad smile on his face. He knew what Celeste would have said. But Celeste wasn't there any longer, buried now in his family mausoleum. He'd tried to trace some of her family-that elusive, unusual family she had spoken of-but his search had proved fruitless, and so instead he had given her a space amongst his long-dead relatives in the grounds of the old house. He knew she would have enjoyed the irony of that.

He hoped her family would be proud of what she'd done; what she'd sacrificed. She'd been true to herself to the last, true to him, also. He loved her for that. Loved her for her tenacity, for her passion, for her sultry smile and her honesty. She'd known him for who he truly was, known him better even than he knew himself. He owed it to her, now, to live that life, to embrace what she had taught him about himself, to be done with pettiness and vengeance. He had a job to do, and he would do it. He would do it for her, and he would do it for the people of New York.

Gabriel realized he'd been toying with the controls of an electrical device on the windowsill as he stared out at the party. He looked down. It was the bastardized holotube terminal from his Manhattan apartment, the one he'd turned into a recording device in an attempt to capture Celeste.

He flicked the switch, waited for the unit to warm up. And there she was, perfect in her long, clinging dress, her hair pinned up to one side, swinging her hips gently as she caressed the microphone. She parted her lips to sing, and her voice echoed out around the room, drowning out the revelers' voices, drowning out the ache in his wounded leg, drowning out everything but the hole in his heart where Celeste used to be. He flicked the switch and she stuttered to a stop, fading out to nothing in the mirrored cavity of the small box. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Celeste wouldn't have wanted this. He leaned back in his day chair and steadied his breathing. Then, reaching for a cigarette, he pulled the tab and took a long pull of nicotine, feeling it flood into his lungs.

He heard someone calling his name from the garden and looked up. His people needed him. He pulled himself to his feet and straightened his rumpled suit.

He had an appointment in the city, later. But for now, Gabriel Cross had a party to attend to, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

From the roof of the precinct building, the Ghost could see half of Manhattan, lit up like a fairy tale, doused in starlight and wonder. He looked out across the rooftops as if he were a lion surveying its territory. A police dirigible floated high overhead, its searchlights crisscrossing the sidewalks below.

Beside the Ghost, Felix Donovan stood in the gloaming, his shoulder now expertly strapped and healing, the wound on his head slowly beginning to mend. The man had been lauded as a hero for his role in bringing down the Roman, and while the Commissioner had not been pleased to hear that Donovan had taken to working on his own, leaving his sergeant behind to clean up his mess, he couldn't fault the man's results.

Of course, as far as the Commissioner was concerned, Donovan still had his work cut out; there was a vigilante loose in the city, and the inspector had been tasked with bringing him in. Somehow, the Ghost knew that Donovan wasn't about to repeat his recent success. At least, not any time soon.

"How are you, Gabriel?" The concern was evident in Donovan's voice.

The Ghost turned away from the view, regarding the inspector from beneath the brim of his new hat. "Well enough, Donovan. Well enough. What about you? How's Flora?"

Donovan smiled. "I took your advice. Let's just say we're enjoying each other's company, more than we have in years."

They both laughed.

"It feels kind of empty, doesn't it?"

The Ghost ceased his laughing and met his friend's gaze. "Yes. I know what you mean. I've never been good at sitting by whilst the world keeps turning."

Donovan looked as if he was about to speak when he suddenly stopped and looked up. A dead bird was plummeting out of the sky, its broken, mangled wings fluttering aimlessly as it dropped onto the gravel rooftop nearby. Its body made hardly a sound as it landed.

Both men approached the bizarre corpse, stooping to take a look. It was just like the others the Ghost had seen, all over Manhattan, in his Long Island garden.

Donovan shrugged. "What is it with all these dead birds?"

The Ghost looked up. He caught a glimpse of a strange object in the sky, distant now, buzzing away over the rooftops. It glinted in the reflected light of the city; made of brass, about the size of a human being. He pointed it out Donovan.

"I have no idea. But judging by that, I think it's high time we found out."

Donovan grinned. He watched as the Ghost charged toward the lip of the building, launching himself into the air, his rocket boosters igniting as they fired him away on a bright plume of flame, his trench coat flapping open behind him like a shadowy pair of wings.

I have no name.

I am the judgment that lives in the darkness, the spirit of the city wrought flesh and blood.

I was born of vengeance and I have no past. I am both protector and executioner. I represent the lives of the helpless; those who will not or cannot help themselves. I show no mercy.

I exist only in the shadows. The alleyways and the rooftops are my domain. I feel the heartbeat of the city, like a slow, restless pulse; I flow unimpeded through its street map of veins.

I live to keep the city clean, to search out the impurities and deliver retribution.

I am Life and Death, Yin and Yang.

I have a name ...

I am the Ghost.

And I know where to find you.

E 0 R G E M A N N is the author of The Affinity Bridge and The Osiris Ritual, as well as numerous short stories, novellas and an original Doctor Who audiobook. He has edited a number of anthologies including The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction, The Solaris Book of New Fantasy and a retrospective collection of Sexton Blake stories, Sexton Blake, Detective. He lives near Grantham, UK, with his wife, son and daughter.