Whiskey and Water (42 page)

A chain reaction. Orfeo came hunting the
trace his mistress had left on the enemy, and when Orfeo flew,
he
left a
trace that alerted another hunter.

Ernie Peese moved in a world of mages and
Faeries, angels and killers and jeweled midnight beasts, hard-luck stories and
unhappy endings. He wore cold iron in his shoulder holster, and he believed in
the law and he believed in his faith. But he had no magic of his own.

He was brusque, honest, plainspoken. Not
stupid, and not for sale, and he took it as an affront to decency and his own
dedication to the best, most important job in the world that magic was afoot on
the earth.

But sometimes angels spoke to him, for
Ernie was a virtuous man. And there is nothing to do when angels speak, except
listen, and do what you are told, and do the best you can.

Ernie woke in darkness, to the rustle of
mighty wings. He was alone in his bed, in his bedroom, except for the faintly
snoring shape of his wife. Lucy slept hard. She never woke when Ernie got out
of bed, late at night, and paced out to the living room to watch television
with the sound turned off.

She didn't wake now when he stood up in
his boxers and pulled that day's trousers off the back of the bedside chair,
though leftover change rattled in his pockets. He slid them on, found socks,
kicked his shoes out from under the bed as silently as he could manage. He
found a polo shirt and a sweater in the laundry basket, folded and clean,
groping among textures. The light from the alarm clock turned everything green.

He walked into the hallway still shrugging
his coat over his holster, and slipped out the front door and triple-locked it
without waking the dog. The note he left pasted to the television screen read
Gone
walking. Home for breakfast.

The elevator took too long to reach the
sixth floor. The voice in his ear urged him faster, so Ernie plunged down the
stairs, bouncing lightly on tiptoe, trying to keep the old building from ringing
with his footsteps.

He hit the street at a trot, accelerating.

Not far away, with a passing thought for
irony, Don followed the cold in his hand. And Whiskey, still stalking the city,
followed Don. He was curious what went on in the archmage's tower—what brought Mage
and Bunyip there in consultation—but he was more interested in what mission
sent the hastily summoned officer running into the night like a page on an
errand.

The shadows would not hide him in his
white shirt and trousers, so he had conjured clothes in plain tailored black
when he shifted to human form. Dark skin and dark hair would have sufficed even
if he had not been out of sight as he followed, letting the officer's scent
lead on.

For his part, Donall ran. Adrenaline
shocked his tired cells, tangled his nerves; concrete jarred his knees and hips
with every stride. He had no breath to damn Jane Andraste, and so he did it
silently, damned Jane and Matthew and Felix and every other Mage who'd ever
lived, a relentless liturgy of rage.

It was with himself that he was furious.
It was his fault Rivera was dead. He'd had Szczegielniak in his hands, and he'd
let the damned Mage convince him — convince him the same way Jane had, with
that mysterious plausibility.

He would have liked to blame it on magic,
to say he'd had no choice. Another symptom of weakness. Another way he was an
idiot. And he couldn't outrace that guilt, a young woman's blood and her
horrible death. He couldn't expiate it.

But maybe he could run fast enough to stop
it happening a third time.

Orfeo dipped emerald pinions and bent on a
curve, gliding now, circling a mortal Mage. The mistress' touch was upon the
man, a peppery sunflower scent guiding Orfeo down, sliding, putting a helix
and plans of murder under his wings.

The street was tight, and the Mage
accompanied. Orfeo must hit his angle right the first time. He must strike from
behind, over the heads of the mortal youngsters, like an owl taking a cat: the
unheard wings, the stunning blow, the talons piercing skull and brain and the
carcass lifted before the victim understood its death, the body's own weight
snapping the twisted neck. He did not believe he would get a second chance.

He saw well in the dark, did Orfeo, but
the shadows from the streetlights were confusing. Still, the Mage's blond hair
stood out. There could be no mistaking his victim.

His feathers were not hushed like an
owl's; when he stooped, he could not beat his wings. The flutter would give him
away. And the wind was wrong, ruffling his plumage. Fortunately, he realized
before committing and caught and nursed a thermal, lifting into the night for
another pass.

The city noticed. A vast slumbery beast,
drowsing through hungers, not quick to waken to the firefly existences
flickering through its heavy-lidded streets unless they forced themselves on
its attention — but needing them, half aware even in dreams of their presence,
the mitochondrial lives that populated it, that gave it being. Eight million
hearts in the city, and every heart a city unto itself.

And the city's dreams were already worn
thin by the
trip-trap
of Faerie hooves and boots over asphalt and paving
stones, its slumber troubled by the peal of magic and the clamor of sacrifice,
its intellect aroused by the tolling of the Dragon's wingbeats on the gasping
air. Enough blood can wake even stones.

And these stones knew whom they had
chosen, even if the choice had been in dreams, even though their limerence went
unrequited. And the object of the choice wore the Summer Queen's touch like a brand
on his arm. That touch placed him in danger, and with him, the city.

New York was awakening.

And Matthew would not be permitted to
ignore it any longer.

Matthew paused under a streetlight on an
empty block, and the bulb popped. Nothing: he barely noticed. An everyday
occurrence since the bridge and the unicorn. Kit looked up, though, and quickly
down, raising an arm to shield his face, half expecting a rain of soot or
glass. "What's that?"

"Signs and portents," Matthew
answered, with a glance over his shoulder to make sure Geoff and Lily were
following. Lily huddled in the red sweater, head ducked and forearms pressed
together in front of her chest. She fumbled with a little box and extracted
something from it on a licked fingertip. "Lily?"

"Meds," she said, and tucked the
tablet into her mouth, a gesture practiced into efficiency. "I have . . .
primary adrenal insufficiency. It's aggravated by stress. Which ..." She
tilted her head in a half shrug, and tucked the snuffbox back into her bag
while dry-swallowing the pill. "Just being careful."

Geoff reached out left-handed and squeezed
her hand. The length of the block, CLOSED signs flickered and pulsed: red,
stop, warning. Matthew stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and balled
up his left fist, eyes downcast.

"What's going on?" Geoff's
gesture took in the flickering neon, the abrupt wail of a car alarm and flash of
headlights.

Matthew turned in the strobing, frozen in
a series of stop-motion flashes. "Back against the wall." He put a
hand on Lily's shoulder to guide her there. She resisted until Kit, who had
caught Matthew's expression, grabbed her wrist and dragged her against brick.
It could have been a warning, the city talking to him. Or it could have been
someone like Felix trying to distract or attack him.

It didn't feel like Felix, though.

"What's happening?" Geoff again,
revolving slowly, scanning the street, as if he could see what made the magic
occur.

"It's a warning. But I don't
know—-" Matthew settled on his heels, a chill creeping under the collar of
the flannel shirt. Someone ran toward them: someone big, moving fast. Matthew
shouted: "Don!"

The detective slowed as Matthew raised a
hand. His eyes moved from Geoff to Kit to Lily, measuring each one in a manner
that made Kit feel for the hilt of the rapier he wasn't wearing.

Don drew up about fifteen feet away and
stopped, foursquare, his hands by his sides. Sweat slicked his forehead and
dripped from the tip of his nose to splash on the front of his shirt, but he
forced his breathing and his voice level.

"Matthew Szczegielniak, you are under
arrest for the murder of Althea Benning," Don said, wishing he relished
the words a little more, feeling the weight of his gun against his heaving
ribs. He didn't think Matthew would go for a weapon. But Don had seen Althea's
body, and Don knew how deceptive a mild-mannered suspect could be. He stayed
well back. "Please face the wall."

"Aw, this is
not
a good time
for this," Matthew said, and did as he was told, while Geoff gaped and Lily
shivered, and Kit—after Matthew's sharp nod —herded them away.

Don searched him. He didn't resist, as
efficient hands pressed his clothes against his skin and Don confiscated his
cell phone. Another car alarm deployed, a wailing siren. A shopwindow half a
block on and across the street crumbled into a shower of crashing glass as Don
jerked Matthew's arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs on. Stainless steel
embraced Matthew's wrists, warding, protecting, and the store's alarm climbed
the night.

"Stop with that," Don said, and
gave Matthew a shake. It's not
me."

"Matthew?" Geoff, sounding
plaintive and worn. I didn't," Matthew said, craning his neck over his shoulder
in a vain attempt to catch Geoff's gaze. Geoff was looking over him, past him,
eyes as round and open as his mouth. Looking at Don, no doubt. "I
think-"

Matthew!"
A gasping shout in a young man's voice.
Too late, too late. Orfeo was stooping, dropping like a tiercel, having found
his wind and folded his wings. The Mage stood tall, head up and shoulders pulled
back, and the others around him could do nothing to stop Orfeo's fall.

His legs were extended behind him, antlers
laid against his spine to streamline his body, wings furled against his sides.
The water towers rushed past, the rooftops, the gargoyles, the walls, the wind,
and the night.

The Mage turned, blond head tilted back,
following his student's shout. He was helpless, hands bound, magic bound, all
his agency wrapped in steel. He started to step aside just as Orfeo cupped his wings,
snapped them wide with a thunderclap, creating a bar moored in the air around
which to swing his weight. A gymnast's reversal, and his legs came forward and
down, talons splayed, striking for the brain, for the eyes. Shattered,
scintillating light left a flickering train of images suspended in the night.

At the last moment, the leading edge of
Orfeo's wing struck the police officer, knocking him sprawling, and Orfeo's
own pinions obscured his prey.

The strike was a second thump, hard on the
crack of snapped wings. Orfeo felt the stretched resilience of skin before
talons popped through, the crunch and squish and slickness, as if a crow drove through
the shell of a garden snail. A loud, sick pop meant the neck had snapped. The
dangling weight shivered as Orfeo labored upward, its feet kicking erratically
before it went limp. Blood ran over his toes, hot, slippery. It did not affect
his grip.

The prey never made a sound. But someone
else was screaming, high enough to carry over the warble of electronic alarms.
Keening, shrill and thin, like a gutshot animal.

Orfeo sang as he climbed.

Lily didn't have the presence of mind to
drop to her knees, or muffle with her hands the sounds she was making. Kit
thrust her back against the wall without a word, stooped, and scrambled over
the sidewalk, scraping his hands, sick at the warm blood wet under his palms.
He didn't look up, not at the climbing wings, not at the dark dangling shape.
He crouched between his knees and grabbed Matthew's shoulder, heaved him onto
his back. Blood streaked his face, some of it Geoff's, most of it his own. He'd
fallen hard, with his hands chained behind his back. He hadn't been able to
keep his face from striking stone.

"Christ wept," Kit said, ducking
his head warily as he fumbled for a pulse. But Matthew twitched as he did it,
eyes flicking open, sockets already staining on either side of a broken nose.

"Ow," Matthew said, thick and
muffled as if he spoke through cotton wool.

Lily's breathless screaming stopped,
hiccuped, dropped a register as she muttered, "oh, God, oh, God."

It didn't help. The cars still beeped and
flashed; the shattered storefront wailed. Matthew blinked. "It missed?"

Kit flinched. He got his feet under him,
still hunched, and started dragging Matthew into the shadow of the wall.
Matthew bore it gamely, obviously trying not to wrinkle his face around his
nose. "Not exactly. Geoff knocked you down."

"He— Oh. Oh, shit." The Mage
tried to struggle up.

On the sidewalk, Don was shoving to hands
and knees. Kit snarled at him, while pushing on Matthew's shoulders with both
hands.
"Stay down!"

Don dropped to his elbows and rolled
across oil stains and petrified chewing gum until he fetched up against the
wall. He burrowed under his coat and came out with a semiautomatic pistol that
vanished in the meat of his hand. "Where's the kid?"