Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) (23 page)

“Cool your heels, lady. You want to hear it, you let me tell it in my own time. We’re in your dreamscape. This whole conversation is taking maybe fifteen, twenty seconds of outside-world time.”

I wanted to remind the Eidolon that “fifteen, twenty seconds” would be plenty of time for it to die a long, slow, painful death inside my dreams. Instead, I reminded myself that, for reasons I didn’t understand, this demon appeared to be helping me.

“So, Pryce and Difethwr dragged the zombie through Uffern, and the whole way she’s raising holy hell—so to speak. Heh heh. They stopped in front of this door and looked around. I hid in the shadows so they wouldn’t see me.” Not hard—Uffern was all flames and flickering shadows. “Pryce kicked open the door and dragged the zombie through.”

“By himself?”

“Difethwr stayed on our side. The demons’ side. I waited for it to cross the threshold, so I could scoot through before the door closed. But that didn’t happen. Difethwr stayed put, but the door was closing. I had to creep along the floor, like this.” Butterfly demonstrated, wings flat, its multiple legs taking stealthy steps. “When I was sure the Destroyer wasn’t looking, I ran across the threshold. Immediately, I knew I was in your world. I was on a concrete floor in some hallway. No windows. I think it was underground. The place was filthy, with lots of junk lying around.

“Anyway, by the time I caught up with Pryce, he and some guy in a robe were shoving the zombie through a door. Once they locked her in, the screaming stopped and I could hear again. Soundproofing, I guess. I crawled as close as I dared. The guy in the robe was pulling up his hood; it had fallen back in the struggle. Whoa, man. Talk about
ugly
. He had the Crypt Keeper’s complexion and fangs like freakin’ walrus tusks. He was complaining, and it took a minute for me to follow what he was saying, what with those ridiculous fangs and all. Something about how he wasn’t sure that even the cauldron was worth all this trouble. Pryce said, ‘Once you’ve been transformed, you’ll thank me.’”

Of course. That was what Pryce was offering the Old Ones for their cooperation. The one thing Colwyn and his crew had always wanted: eternal life. Not as the decrepit, hideous creatures they’d become, but transformed into strong, powerful beings—into gods. After Pryce conquered the Darklands, he’d give its prize, the cauldron of transformation, to the Old Ones.

“Then,” Butterfly continued, “Pryce asked Mr. Fangs how long before the virus would be ready. I didn’t catch the exact answer, but I got the impression it would be soon. I did hear fangboy say that some was being readied for shipment.”

“Shipment? Did he say where it was going?”

“‘The first locations.’ That was all I got.”

The Old Ones, creators of the original plague virus, were making more and shipping it somewhere—multiple somewheres. And Pryce was threatening Tina to prevent us from destroying more Morfran. He planned to create more zombies and turn them into an unstoppable Morfran-driven army.

“Butterfly, this is bad. This is really,
really
bad. You need to tell me where Pryce took Tina.”

The demon’s voice turned crafty. “What’s it worth to you?”

Don’t kill the thing yet, Vicky. It’s got more information.
“What do you mean?” I said, trying to sound all innocent. “You said you’d help me in hopes of saving your own sweet ass. Remember?”

“That was my starting position, sure. But I risked my ‘sweet ass’ to get some information, and I hit pay dirt. Emphasis on
pay
. You heard enough to know my info is good. You can save your little zombie friend and prevent Mr. Fangs from distributing plague virus to locations unknown. So I ask again: What’s it worth to you, oh great demon slayer? How much do you want to save the world?”

Never, ever had I wanted to kill any demon more than I wanted to kill Butterfly at that moment. But I couldn’t. Not yet. “What do you want?”

“You know, ever since you first conjured me, it’s been nothing but, ‘Get the hell away from me, Butterfly,’ or ‘I’m going to stab you with this bronze dagger, Butterfly,’ or ‘How about I humiliate you to death, Butterfly?’ You only ever summon me when you want something. The rest of the time, you’d rather see me dead.”

“What do you expect? You’re a parasite.”

Butterfly sniffed. “That doesn’t mean that I don’t have feelings. So here’s what I want. I’ll tell you where Pryce took your zombie friend—give you the actual address—if . . .”

I leaned forward, waiting.

“If you promise to be nice to me.”

Okay, this
had
to be one of those moments when a dream went from feeling like everyday reality to Salvador Dali–land. “You want me to be
nice
to you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. A personality like yours, it’s asking too much, isn’t it?” Butterfly’s voice went all pouty. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”

With an effort, I made the dagger I’d conjured vanish. “Define ‘nice.’”

“What?” Butterfly’s eyes fixed on my empty hand.

“When you say that you want me to be nice to you, what exactly do you mean?”

“Well, you won’t threaten to kill me, for starters. That sort of talk puts a real crimp on a relationship.”

“No threats. What else?”

“No actually
trying
to kill me either, of course. And no name-calling or humiliation.”

“So basically you want me to grin and bear it while you torment me and get fatter on my emotions.”

“A demon’s gotta eat.” Butterfly flew close, hovering inches in front of my face. “But no, actually, that’s not what I mean. I thought maybe we could . . . you know, talk.” Its beady eyes actually looked sincere, even hopeful.

“Let me make sure I understand. You want to me to sit down and have a friendly chat with you.”

“Yeah.” A forked tongue darted from its mouth. “And maybe just a
little
snack.”

It went against everything I’d ever learned about demons. As soon as any demon got a toehold into your psyche, you killed it, the faster the better. And yet I’d been living with this one for weeks. It had stopped me from attacking Mab, and it had risked its life to find out where Pryce had taken Tina. Butterfly drove me crazy, but this demon also had information I needed.

“You promise you have the actual street address, here in the Ordinary, of where the Old Ones are holding Tina?”

“Yeah. When Pryce left, it was still dark in your world. Instead of following him back into the demon plane, I went outside. I know the address, all right.”

I bit my lip, feeling I was about to make a terrible mistake. But Tina needed me. I had to find her. “All right. I’ll be nice to you. For one hour.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” For a moment, Butterfly looked almost weepy. But the sentimental expression hardened to a sneer. “Your head would explode if you tried for any longer than that.”

Whatever. “You want to shake on it?”

Butterfly lifted its front leg. “No hands, remember? I’ll accept a blood oath.” I didn’t like the sound of that, but before I objected Butterfly shot like a rocket through the air and landed on my shoulder. “So,” it said, “you agree to be nice to me for one hour in exchange for the address of the Old Ones’ base?”

“Yes, but—” Before I could get another word out, the demon chomped a chunk out of my neck. “Ow!” My hand reflexively swatted at the spot.

“No swatting, either. When you’re being nice to me, I mean.”

“Fine, fine. Give me the address.”

“Pay attention. You don’t want to forget it when you wake up.” Butterfly buzzed the address in my ear, repeating the number and street over and over. When I felt like it was burned into my brain, I brushed the demon away. Gently, even. “Get ready,” I said, spreading my arms wide. I brought my hands together in a loud clap. An explosion boomed, shattering my dreamscape and hurling Butterfly and myself each into our own realms.

I JUMPED OUT OF BED AND YANKED AT THE BLACKOUT shade. Bright sunlight dazzled me. Still day. I had time.

Ignoring the white spots that swam through my vision, I wrote down the address Butterfly had given me. It was in East Boston, not far from the airport. I clutched the paper in my hand as I rushed out to the living room to call Daniel.

Mab lay fast asleep on the sofa, a light blanket pulled up to her collarbone, her face pressed into the cushions. The sight of her there, so relaxed, so vulnerable, gave me pause.

Pryce wanted to kill her. I didn’t doubt that for a moment. After all, both zombies had gone straight for Mab at the airport. My demi-demon “cousin”—and his plan to work with the Old Ones to distribute the zombie virus—had to be stopped. But what if Pryce had fed Butterfly that information and then sent the Eidolon to me to set up an ambush? I mean, a demon spying on its own kind in return for nothing more than an hour of civil conversation? It didn’t add up. Demons—all of them—are creatures of greed and pure self-interest. The only way an Eidolon could come up with an offer like Butterfly’s would be if it were getting a much more significant reward from another quarter.

Like Pryce.

It made sense. Everything Butterfly had told me was true: the address, the virus, Pryce’s alliance with the Old Ones. But maybe my friendly neighborhood demon had left out the part where Pryce had given it the information on purpose, patted its misshapen little head, and sent it my way with his blessing.

Was Butterfly double-crossing me? If it was, that damn demon would soon learn that I defined “being nice” as putting it out of its miserable existence by dicing it into pieces with my sharpest bronze blade.

I couldn’t trust Butterfly. I couldn’t trust
any
demon. And I would not risk Mab’s life by leading her into a trap.

Pryce had told Mab I wasn’t the Lady of the Cerddorion. But I’d bet my best long sword that he thought she was—and therefore needed to be eliminated.

I set the phone in its cradle and returned quietly to my bedroom. As I dressed, I formulated my plan. First, I’d go to Kane’s office and fill him in. He said he wanted to stand beside me. Okay, I’d let him. I could use his help. While there, I’d arm myself with weapons from Mab’s trunk, still locked in Kane’s vault. Then, we’d go to East Boston. If Butterfly’s information checked out, I’d call Daniel. That way, Mr. Let-the-Professionals-Handle-It Detective couldn’t tell me to keep away from the site—I’d already be there.

The clock on the wall told me it was a little past noon. With any luck, I’d be home safe and sound, ready to tell Mab of the Old Ones’ defeat before she woke up.

I tiptoed through the living room and eased the front door open. I didn’t let out my breath until I’d pulled it silently but firmly shut behind me.

DEADTOWN WAS AS QUIET AT NOON AS THE REST OF BOSTON would be at two in the morning. I was glad to see that zombies were home behind their blackout shades, honoring the curfew, not roving around in gangs looking for things to smash and fights to pick. If Kane’s rally had let them express their frustrations in a more constructive way, he’d really accomplished something.

Once I’d passed through the checkpoints, I entered a different world. The downtown streets bustled with humans going shopping, heading to appointments, and running lunch-hour errands. It was a beautiful spring day, with the kind of warm, sunny weather that fooled you into thinking summer had arrived. In my tank top, jeans, and light jacket, I was a little dressed-down compared to all the business-suited types, men and women, buzzing in and out of Kane’s office building. Too bad. I was at work, too, but in my business dress-for-success didn’t mean a tailored suit and high-heeled pumps. Those would only get in my way.

I rode the elevator to Kane’s floor. As I pulled open the glass door to his office suite, his receptionist, Iris, smiled a greeting. Iris was a pretty and efficient human who kept Kane’s law firm running smoothly, especially when the boss and his werewolf partners were on retreat.

“Vicky, hello,” Iris said warmly. “You missed Kane by twenty minutes.”

“Is he at lunch? I thought maybe I should peek into The Grill, but the office was on the way, so it made sense to stop here first.” The Grill was Kane’s favorite lunch spot.

“I can save you the trouble of going over there. He’s not at lunch. He went home.”

I remembered he’d admitted being tired, but I still thought he’d be here. Kane voluntarily going home in the middle of a workday was on a level with daisies sprouting from a three-foot snowbank in the middle of February.

“I know,” Iris said. “Unheard of, right? He said he had to get some sleep. Said he’d been feeling a little run-down and wanted to rest up before the full-moon retreat.” She frowned. “I hope the Detweiler pack isn’t giving him trouble again. Their oldest sons are twins, and I hear they’ve been challenging every male in sight.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” The Night Hag gave “run-down” a whole new meaning—she’d drive her hounds until their paws were ragged shreds of bloody flesh, and then do it again the next night. I was glad Kane was giving himself time to prepare for his ordeal. He’d need it.

“You’re probably right,” Iris said. “Those Detweiler whelps are no match for him. So, do you want to use the phone?” Iris knew about my abysmal track record with cell phones; she wouldn’t expect me to be carrying one. “I know he wouldn’t mind if you called him at home.”

“No, I don’t want to disturb him. But I would like to get some things from the safe.”

“That’s fine. He told me a couple of days ago that you and your aunt have access. You know the combination, right?”

I assured her I did.

“Great, I’ll let you in his office.”

I followed Iris down the carpeted hall. The ring of keys in her hand jingled with each step. She stopped at Kane’s door, fitted a key into the lock, and pushed the door open. “Take your time,” she said, stepping back to let me pass. “The door locks automatically when you close it. Just pull it shut when you’re done.”

The keys jingled their way back toward the reception desk.

Kane’s office looked the same as always—papers piled high on his desk, law books crammed into multiple bookcases, several diplomas adorning the wall, a
KANE AND ASSOCIATES
screensaver bouncing around his computer monitor—except for the vacuum at the center of it all created by his absence. His leather chair was swiveled to the side, as though he’d just stood up and would be back again in a minute. Even the air held his scent. I inhaled, feeling it warm my lungs and send tingles through me.

I sat down in his chair.
This is how he sees the world,
I thought. The windows along one wall revealed a spectacular view of the harbor, framed by tall buildings. An airplane drifted toward a runway at Logan. On his desk sat a framed photo I hadn’t seen before. I leaned forward and picked it up. It showed the two of us, the ocean in the background. Kane had his arm around me, and I leaned against him. Wind ruffled our hair, and we were laughing, our faces lit up with the joy of being together.

I couldn’t remember when the photo had been taken. The ocean suggested it was from the weekend we’d spent on Cape Cod last summer. Had it been nearly a year since we’d laughed that way? So many other things had pushed between us, turning our relationship into an obstacle course. I wanted this moment back—no, I wanted it again. And again and again. I wanted to be together, relaxed and easy and basking in uncomplicated happiness.

Should I call him? To say, “I love you, and I know we’ll get through this.” I reached for the phone, then paused. What if he was sleeping? He’d said himself he needed to rest and build up his strength. I knew he was worried about the full moon, but I also knew he hadn’t admitted even half how much. He didn’t need me to call him now to say, “Nice photo on your desk.” He’d want to know what I was doing here, and when I told him he’d insist on going to East Boston with me. Part of me wanted him there, by my side. But another part said that was selfish, that I’d be draining his reserves exactly when he needed to replenish them.

The Night Hag intended to break him. I’d do whatever I could to support him.

I touched the glass over the photo, tracing Kane’s cheek. This picture said so much. It showed that Kane believed in a vision of us, one that wasn’t marred by demons and evil and blood and death. His vision was simple: us together, laughing. And I was grateful. It was a vision I could hold onto as I did what I had to do. A hope for coming out on the other side of all this and finding each other there.

Coming together again. Holding each other, maybe even laughing.

I set the photo back in its place. Then I opened Kane’s safe to choose my weapons.

THE ADDRESS BUTTERFLY HAD GIVEN ME WAS IN EAST BOSTON, a few blocks from a popular skate park. Narrow clapboard houses squeezed together amid auto-body shops and restaurant supply stores. I found the street, and then the number; the building itself appeared abandoned. Made of yellow brick, its single story squatted behind a six-foot chain-link fence, topped with coils of razor wire. Graffiti covered the walls and boarded-up windows.

Exactly the kind of place the Old Ones would slither into and call home.

I scouted as much of the building as I could without drawing attention to myself. Weeds sprouted throughout the small parking lot, which was gated and locked, and along the walkway to the front door. A wooden sign announced the building was
AVAILABLE!
and gave the name and phone number of a real estate firm. Much of the paint had flaked off, taking with it the last couple of digits in the phone number. I had a feeling no prospective buyers had looked at this building for a very long time.

Across the street a face watched me from the second story of a small house. East Boston is a diverse neighborhood, and its residents keep an eye out for each other. If anything had been going on in the abandoned factory, someone would have noticed.

I crossed the street and went up the short walkway to the house’s front steps. The concrete walk was cracked, but petunias sprouted from window boxes. Grimy statues of mischievous gnomes peeked out from between the flowers. One of them, positioned to appear as any visitor mounted the steps, dropped his pants to greet you with a double-cheeked moon. Hostile or humorous? I’d find out when I rang the bell.

A buzzer sounded inside. I didn’t have to ring a second time before a short woman in a flowered housecoat opened the door. She looked to be in her late sixties. Her gray-and-white hair was pulled back tightly from her face, barrettes catching potential stragglers. Sharp lines etched her forehead and the corners of her eyes, making her look like someone who scowled as much as she smiled. She was scowling now. Or maybe just squinting in the bright sunlight.

“Yeah?”

I spoke to her through the screen of the aluminum storm door. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m interested in the building across the street, and I wondered if you could tell me anything about it.”

“That dump? Been empty for years. Used to be a factory making cardboard boxes. My Salvatore worked there. It’s why we moved here, so he’d be close to his work. Then they closed down the place. Sal was out of a job, and we were stuck here. Story of my life.”

“How long ago did it close?”

“Seven years. Sent all the jobs down south somewheres. Any work Sal’s gotten since then has been half the pay at most. He was a security guard for a while at Boston Garden, but even at that job they fired him. Hired a bunch of zombies instead—they don’t got to pay zombies minimum wage, you know.” She shook her head, looking more tired than angry. “I don’t know what this country’s coming to.”

“So you haven’t seen any activity around this building?” I gestured across the street to remind her of what we were talking about.

“Seen? Nah. Heard? Oh, Lordy.” She pressed both hands to her ears to show the extent of the noise. “At night, sometimes you hear these awful screams. Last night, for example. Stupid drunk kids, that’s what it is. It was so bad I woke up Sal. I was sure they’d gotten hold of a stray cat and were torturing it. Not that I like the wild cats that have taken over this street. Nasty pests, scratch you as soon as look at you. But still. I told Sal to call the cops, but he said to ignore it and go to sleep.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. The screaming stopped, sudden-like. I figured they’d had their fun and done the poor thing in. Cops would’ve taken hours to get here, anyway. If they bothered to come at all. Think cops care about a stray cat?”

I thanked her for her time and went back down the path. The gnome mooned me again. Now, the statue seemed like neither a joke nor an expression of hostility—more like a comment from a disappointed woman who knew she was at the end of her road. She’d never get any further in life than where she was right now. So she’d plant flowers, but she’d also let the world know this was not where she’d intended to be.

I put petunias and bare-assed gnomes out of my mind and went to call Daniel.

WALKING ON MERIDIAN STREET, I FELT LESS CONSPICUOUS. There was more traffic here, along with the occasional pedestrian. A mother sat on the front steps of a triple-decker, holding her sleeping baby and enjoying the sunshine. I pulled out my cell phone and called Daniel. His work number went straight to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. Daniel had worked all night. He was probably home sleeping, like Kane and Mab and Juliet and everyone else with any sense at all.

I called him at home. The time to raid the Old Ones’ hideout was in daylight, and I’d burned enough of that already.

It took four rings for him to pick up. “Costello,” said a voice heavy with sleep.

“Daniel, it’s Vicky. I know where the Old Ones are hiding.”

His voice went from sleep-addled to alert in zero-point-two seconds. “Where?”

“East Boston.” I gave him the address.

“Wait. Where did you get this information? Juliet and I didn’t get to that part of town last night.”

“A little birdie from the demon plane told me. My informant has been inside, Daniel. When Pryce grabbed Tina, it followed them through the demon plane and into this world. It saw Pryce hand Tina over to Colwyn.”