Undead to the World (30 page)

But.

The spells are degrading. Triggering earlier. Which means I might be able to break
through to my memories
before
Zev’s about to rip my throat out. I close my eyes and try.

Zev. Sounds like an abbreviation. Short for what? Not a lot of words start that way.

Brute force it. Go through the vowels. Zeva. Zeve. Zevi. Zevo—

Zevon.

That’s it, but I still don’t know what it means. I try free associating. Only Zevon
I know is Warren Zevon, the musician. Big hit was a song called—

“Werewolves of London.”

Zevon. British accent. Red hair? Or was it white? Had to have been a thrope, but that
doesn’t seem quite right, either. And the voice—that had been a fake accent, hadn’t
it? And not the only one …

And then I have it. The goofy sense of humor, the thrope connection, the voices.

I sigh. “Charlie, you never met him face to face—not in his real form, anyway—but
this guy is based on a trickster spirit. The
kitsune
in Vancouver, remember?”

“But it’s not him, right?”

“I don’t think so … but I’m not sure. Azura said only three entities were brought
over the dimensional divide—me, the alpha wolf, and the master vampire—but she didn’t
mention the Road Crew from Hell, so I guess this could be the real thing. I doubt
it, though; Zevon worked for an actual deity, and I don’t think she’d take kindly
to someone poaching him.”

“I know what a
kitsune
is,” Doctor Pete says. “Not usually this bloodthirsty, are they?”

“Depends on how funny the carnage is,” I say. “Which gives me an idea.…”

I call down the tunnel. “Hey! Funnyboy! Want to hear a joke?”

No answer.

“What do you call a half vampire, half werewolf with a grudge?”

Now I hear an echoey laugh. Closer than he was before. “Who says I have a grudge?”

“Oh, you’ve all got a grudge—they hand ’em out for free when you enter city limits.
But yours doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“It does to
me
…”

“I don’t think so. Old Man Longinus may have been able to steal or duplicate the memories
of some of the people I know, but the personal assistant of a goddess was out of his
reach. So he just
made them up.
The real giveaway is the half-thrope, half-pire thing—that’s just not
possible.
”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His voice is an amused whisper. “This town is weirdsville squared,
right? All
kinds
of bizarre shit is possible here.”

“Not this. The supernatural viruses that cause vampirism and lycanthropy don’t get
along, and here they’re magnified—so much so that a war’s about to break out between
their hosts. Both viruses in one body would rip you apart—which means you don’t contain
either.
”

“Is this going to be one of those long, pointless setups with a lame punchline? ’Cause
I really
hate
those.”

“You want a punchline, Zev? Here it is:
You aren’t real.
”

Silence. Is he thinking about it, realizing that what I’m saying makes sense? Can
he
feel
that it’s true, or is he incapable of that? Just how much crazy did Ahaseurus pour
into Zev’s skull when he made him, and how crazy has he become since Ahaseurus’s spells
started to fall apart?

I get my answer by way of a low chuckle. A chuckle that grows into full-throated laughter,
then up the register to pure, hysterical screams of glee; the sound bounces off the
stone walls, reverberating through the damp, chilled dark like the howls from a basement
full of lunatics deprived of their meds.

He knows I’m telling the truth. He just doesn’t care.

“Nice,” Charlie says. “Knocked him right off his rocker. He’ll be
much
easier to deal with now.”

“Oh, absolutely. Trapped underground with a monster who’s equal parts pire, thrope,
and mental patient—we’ve got him right where we want him.”

“You’re smiling,” Doctor Pete says to me. “Why are you
smiling
?”

Charlie glances at me, then him. “Because that
wasn’t
a joke…”

“Stay close,” I say, and take off at a run.

I know crazy. And I know monsters. I know where we are, what Zev was designed to do,
and where I’m supposed to go. This is a maze, with a rabid animal at one end and me
at the other. He’ll pursue, but he won’t try to take me down until we reach the end—the
longer the chase, the higher the level of terror.

But I’m not terrified. I’m
pissed off.

This isn’t a maze. This is my life. Dead ends, blind alleys, being manipulated to
go one way and then another … I feel like all I ever do is react to one crisis after
another, an endless cycle of what’s-going-to-screw-with-Jace-next. What I really want
to do is stand and fight, but that’s just not a smart move at this point. Whatever
Zev is, I’m guessing he doesn’t have the traditional weaknesses of pires or thropes,
which means the custom loads in my shotgun are useless.

But I know something that might—should—work. Every maze has a piece of cheese at the
end, and I have a pretty good idea what this particular slice of fermented curd must
be. Not just something I want, but something I need. Something I’d be willing to venture
into the Gallowsman’s lair for, something Ahaseurus was going to tempt me with but
never got the chance. There are two possibilities, actually, but I know which one
I’m putting my money on.

So if the entrance under the altar is the start of the maze, where’s the logical end—and
how do I find my way there without a guide?

I skid to a stop, and so do Charlie and Doctor Pete. “Doc,” I say. “I need your nose.”

“Okay, but—this body isn’t a thrope. It’s been bitten, but it’s never transformed.”

“I know that, but even before the first full moon there are changes. Your strength
and senses are still heightened. It should be enough for you to follow a trail.”

I hear Doctor Pete inhale deeply through his nose. “What am I looking for?”

“The smell of old rope. Hemp, probably. With maybe just a touch of decay.”

The monster’s lair. It’s always in the monster’s lair. But where does a creature like
the Gallowsman call home?

“I’ve got something,” Doctor Pete whispers. He frowns, his face shadowy above the
glare of the flashlight. “That way.” He points.

We follow. I’ve got the shotgun ready, and Charlie’s got his Glock, but I know neither
will do much to Zev except maybe slow him down.

And then I see it. Two little winks of light in the darkness ahead of us, one red
and one yellow.

“Down!” I yell, and we all hit the floor. Something whizzes past overhead and smashes
itself to pieces against the far wall: another battery, no doubt. I fire down the
tunnel, but he’s already gone.

“He just
appeared
in the middle of the tunnel,” Doctor Pete says. “I was looking for those eyes, but
I didn’t see them until the last second—”

“That’s because he kept them closed until he was ready to pitch,” I say grimly. “You’re
not the only one who can navigate with his nose, Doc. And I bet his is a lot sharper.
Next time he may decide he doesn’t need to open them at all.”

“He got ahead of us, too,” Charlie says. “Must know these tunnels as well as he said
he did.”

“He’s only got one battery left,” I say. “After that, he’ll have to take us on face-to-face.
Stay sharp and keep moving. Doc, same plan as before, but stay between me and Charlie.
We can’t afford to lose you.”

I take point. I know Zev won’t kill me from a distance; that would put an end to his
game far too quickly.
Maiming,
however, is a definite possibility. I’ll just have to risk it.

We make it to the end of the current tunnel, which branches off to the right and left.
“Left,” Doctor Pete says.

“Any idea where we are?” I ask.

“Not really,” Doctor Pete says. “Somewhere under the middle of town, I think. But
I could be wrong—”

And then we see the noose.

It hangs straight down from the center of the ceiling, the loop at head height. I
play the flashlight beam over it; the rope is dirty white and hairy, like ancient
twine furred by tiny, broken strands. I follow the cord up to the roof, where it goes
straight into a crack between two mortared stones.

I get closer so I can take a better look. Even though it’s braided and tied in a perfect
hangman’s knot, it’s not rope at all; it’s a root. The little strands on it are tiny
rootlets, searching blindly for sustenance in the air.

“Is this it?” Charlie asks.

“I don’t think so,” Doctor Pete says. “The trail keeps going, past it.”

“It’s a focal point,” I say. “A charging station. He stands here with the rope around
his neck and draws despair and bad luck down into himself. We must be under somewhere
people gather—the supermarket, maybe, or the hardware store.”

We skirt the thing, careful not to touch it. I get a powerful image as I edge past
it, and realize I was wrong; the Gallowsman doesn’t stand here, after all. Not after
the first few seconds. That’s when the root tightens around his neck and pulls upward,
just enough to let his feet dangle over the floor.…

It’s the first one we encounter, but not the last. They’re all the same, eerie albino
ovals hanging down as straight as stalactites. I wonder what kind of plants are on
the other end, or if there even are any; maybe there’s only a system of roots, reaching
out under every corner of town like pale, hungry fingers.…

I try not to look at any of them for too long.

The Gallowsman must roam through all these tunnels, but in this case the relative
weakness of Doctor Pete’s tracking ability should be a plus; what he’s picking up
will be the thing’s home, the place it spends its time when it’s not sucking down
depression and ill fortune. That’s the theory, anyway.

“It’s getting stronger,” Doctor Pete says. “I think we must be close.”

And Zev still hasn’t made his move. Which means he won’t go after Doctor Pete, because
he
wants
us to make it to our destination.

“Charlie, switch places with the Doc—”

Too late. There’s a
whump,
not as sharp as the crack that signalled Sally’s death but just as sickening. Charlie
curses and staggers, but doesn’t go down. He gets off a shot, and I hear a yelp; sounds
like he made Zev pay for what he got, anyway.

“How bad?” I ask Charlie, blocking his body with my own.

“Leg. Missed the kneecap, but the shinbone’s broken. Damn stupid things, anyway.”
He sounds more angry than hurt.

“What, batteries?”

“Bones. Why stick something under all that meat if it’s just gonna break? Crappy design,
if you ask me.…”

We make it to the next intersection, Doctor Pete supporting Charlie, and me ready
with the shotgun. I make sure I recover the battery from the ground first; no way
am I going to let Zev use it against us twice.

“Aw, you’re all out of ammo!” I call down the tunnel. “Too bad you don’t have the
cojones
to do this up close and personal!”

“Jace,” Charlie growls. “You really sure you want to taunt the psychopath with the
claws and fangs?”

“I know what I’m doing,” I mutter. I hope.

“We’re here,” Doctor Pete breathes.

I shine the flashlight around. The tunnel we’re in leads to an arched doorway inscribed
with arcane symbols. Steps go down into a large, round room, easily fifty feet across.
It’s filled with … well, junk. Junk carefully arranged on makeshift tables, old bookshelves,
in the open drawers of rusty filing cabinets.

But this junk isn’t random. It’s the debris of dreams.

A wedding dress, covered in brownish-red stains. A cardboard globe with
NO
spray-painted across it in ugly black letters. A row of stuffed animals and dolls,
every one ripped or burned or beheaded. A dusty manuscript on top of a battered typewriter,
with a butcher’s knife stuck deep in the pile of paper.

I can almost taste the sense of loss in the room. Many serial killers take trophies,
but what the Gallowsman takes is sorrow itself. Shards of pain from failed plans,
from adventures deferred or goals unrealized. The contents of the room are a monument
to surrender, to simply giving up and settling for what you have as opposed to what
you really want. The Gallowsman collects them, leaving contented, worry-free townspeople
in his wake. No despair, no bad luck, just good crops and a serene population—all
except for the one poor soul who gets all this gloom and regret dumped on his or her
head so everyone else stays happy.

Me.

“Jace,” Charlie says. “I don’t know if you should go in there—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say tiredly. “Frying pan, fire. The lady or the tiger. Damned if I
do, damned if I don’t,
et
goddamn
cetera
. C’mon, let’s get this over with. There’s something in there I need.”

We help Charlie down the steps, then park him on an old wooden stool where he can
watch the door. I hand him the shotgun—it’s better than his pistol—then start rooting
through the Museum of Lost Chances. Charlie gives the pistol to Doctor Pete.

“Where are we?” asks Doctor Pete, looking around.

I glance at the roof, where there’s a perfectly round, dark hole in the stone about
six feet in diameter. “Pretty sure we’re underneath the church. See that hole? I figure
that’s where the congregation threw their offerings. A payoff for the Gallowsman’s
services.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Something that doesn’t belong here. I didn’t find anything like them when I searched
Old Man Longinus’s house, so I figure he gave them to his pet monster. The more I
think about it, the more sense it makes; these items were given to me by someone who
died, someone I cared about. I haven’t been able to hold them since then without thinking
about him. About what could have been.”