Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men (10 page)

She sensed a presence at her back coming closer and found it convenient to stop and adjust her knapsack strap. People. Cars. The bald couple, arms locked around each other's waist, strolled past her; she heard music coming from their visors. The black limousine was now on this side of the road, cruising barely faster than a person might walk. Accompanied by honking, and rude gestures and suggestions, traffic flowed out around it.

She reslung her pack and walked on.

The limousine passed her, then slowed, nosing in toward the curb. As she drew abreast of the fender, the rear door opened. She halted, ready to bolt, and a man stumbled into her from behind. Cursing, he gave her a shove that sent her toward the limousine. She landed quivering against its fender, but nothing leapt out of the car.

Instead, a broad hand with pudgy fingers appeared and grasped the armrest on the door. Gold rings glinted on most of the fingers and a heavy silver bracelet dangled from the wrist. A face appeared, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Full lips beneath a thin mustache curled up in a smile.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. In fact, quite the opposite. I'd hoped we'd be friends."

She straightened up and shifted to where she could see more of the interior of the car. It was clean, sparklingly clean. An array of gadgets studded the partition between the large rear compartment and the front seat. She recognized the faucet next to the rack of decanters and the video screen was obvious, but there were other fixtures of gleaming chrome and dark, lustrous plastic that were complete mysteries to her.

The eyes behind those dark glasses were mysteries, too.

"I don't know you," she said.

"But you could. My name's John."

"Nym."

"We could have lots of fun. together, Nym."

Something moved within the limousine, and Nym caught sight of a white ankle. She shifted for a better look. John was not alone in the back seat of his limousine; he had a woman beside him, nestling close to him and clinging like soft wax. From what Nym could see of her face, she was pretty, beneath a light scuffing of street dirt. She was definitely young and well endowed. Her clothes were shabby and she wore no shoes, but a change in shade beneath her ankle showed she had until recently. A gold bracelet encircled one wrist. Gold and torn, dirty jeans added to an obvious conclusion.

John noticed where Nym was looking and drew his own conclusions. "I give presents to my friends. Nice presents."

"1 have to be somewhere."

His smile dampened a little, but he didn't relent. "Riding is faster than walking, my dear. More comfortable, too."

It would be night soon. "You'll take me there?"

His smile returned, broadening to reveal his teeth. One of them was gold. "I'll take you places you haven't even thought of yet."

"Okay." She unslung her knapsack and dropped it on the floor of the car. She climbed in beside him and swung the door closed. "Let's go."

Even before Nym was settled, the other woman started squirming against John, nibbling at his ear and murmuring soft, meaningless words. John's reaction to the attentions of the strumpet made clear what sort of fun he enjoyed. In the midst of an embrace, one of his hands left the woman and found its way to Nym's knee. She removed it.

John came up for air. "What's the matter, pretty lady? Don't you want to play too?"

"You said you'd take me there."

"And I will." The woman was continuing to nuzzle him. "But we can have fun along the way. It's nice and private in here." As if on cue, the woman's hands slid to his belt and unhooked it. Her fingers started in on the fastenings beneath. "Don't let Cherie here inhibit you. There's plenty for everyone."

It was not an unfamiliar coin she was being asked to pay.

John gasped as Cherie found what she sought. Her head dropped to his lap. She quickly established a rhythm and one hand rose up to tug open his shirt. Dark-tinted nails traced intricate patterns on his body.

"Join the party," John panted.

Nym stared at Cherie's hand. The woman's sharp nails left pale marks on John's skin. Occasionally tiny drops of blood welled up. John begged for more. Cherie's nails dug deeper.

"Maybe you need a woman's touch to get warmed up." John stroked Cherie's hair, then slid a hand under her chin. He sighed reluctantly when she released him.

Cherie lifted her head, languid lids hooding her dark eyes. She turned in Nym's direction and, apparently for the first time, looked at her. Her eyes snapped wide, dark orbs flashing in recognition. Cherie's face contorted and her lip rose in a snarl, revealing white, white teeth. Her canines were long and pointed. She hissed.

John went pale and tried to squirm away from his suddenly transformed inamorata. Cherie lunged at Nym, but their mutual host got in the way. Cherie clawed at him, tearing cloth and flesh. Nym battered at the controls for the door. John was screaming, struggling to fend off the harridan assaulting him. Some of the violence of their grappling escaped and buffeted Nym, but John's frantic struggles, as uncoordinated as they were, proved a mostly effective barrier; only once did Cherie's claws snake through to rake Nym before the door mechanism finally released and the panel swung open. Fortunately the car wasn't moving very fast. Nym tumbled out, snagging her knapsack as she went. She hit pavement and rolled.

The limousine continued forward, rocking back and forth on its springs as the struggle inside intensified. People noticed and pointed; some laughed. Nym heard the sound of smashing glass. The car turned slightly toward the oncoming lane of traffic, then swerved hard in the other direction, accelerating. It jumped the curb, scattering screaming pedestrians. One fell beneath its wheels before it slammed into a building with crumpling force. The horn began to blare and the car began to shout, "Help! I'm being stolen!" in a mechanical voice. A calmer voice requested that all passengers fasten their seat belts. Nym couldn't hear John's voice among the cacophony.

Nothing but smoke emerged from the wreck, but Nym didn't wait to see if the situation would change. She ran down the street away from the scene. Behind her a fierce bestial howling filled the air.

It wasn't the car.

She ran faster.

Monday's classes dragged. John kept expecting someone from the administration to show up and haul him away, but no one ever came. To all appearances, nothing had changed. It wasn't what John had been expecting.

By the time he got to Global Studies, he had almost convinced himself that Friday's incident was a dream, but Trahn didn't show up for class and John didn't know what to make of that. If Friday's incident was a dream, Trahn should have been present. GS class was longer than the rest of the day combined.

Yael found him while he was scouting the athletic facility for any sign of Winston.

"Missed you at the meet on Saturday. Coach is going to hand you your head at practice tomorrow."

Yael grinned cheerfully as he made throat-cutting sounds and swept his finger across his neck in an exaggerated arc. John wasn't in the mood.

"Something came up."

Yael's eyebrows shot up. "I can hardly wait to hear."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Yael followed him out of the facility. "Coach won't take that for an answer. You don't miss a home meet unless you're dead. You don't look dead to me, mein freund. Just almost dead."

"Didn't get a lot of sleep."

Stopping in his tracks, Yael grabbed John's arm and forced him to stop as well. "Kelley! You got lucky!"

"I did not," John snapped, and immediately regretted it. That would have been an excuse Yael could have understood.

"But is the protest real, or simply a clever subterfuge?"

"Your choice," John said. Let him think what he wanted. It was better than the truth. "Look, I gotta get going. Got stuff to do."

Extricating himself from Yael took only a few more ambiguous comments, the capper being one that implied John might be going to see Kelley. John wished that it were so; she hadn't returned his calls all weekend and he hadn't seen her all day save at a distance or in a large group.

There was mail waiting for him when he got home. Physical mail. His mom was out, so no one heard the yelp he gave when he saw the return address. It was from the Woodman Armory Museum. Physical mail took a lot longer than the usual electronic kind; no wonder it had taken so long to come.

But come it had.

He tore it open. It was the job offer he was hoping for. Only now that he held it in his hands, it didn't seem like such a magic thing, and his excitement faded as quickly as it had come. The incident with Winston would probably destroy this opportunity. Once the museum heard about the beating, they'd withdraw the offer. How could they trust someone with such violent tendencies? Wouldn't matter that the position was only a night watchman's post; criminal behavior was criminal behavior. They'd probably also tell him that his services as a do-cent were no longer desired. Bad for public relations, to have a brutal brawler talking with impressionable young kids.

He almost threw the letter in the disposal.

But he didn't. He and his mother could use the extra income. The company stipend kept them fed and clothed, but it wasn't really enough for those extras that made life comfortable. His mother was always passing up something for herself in order to spend the money on him. As much as he wanted her to stop denying her own happiness, he didn't want to go without those things she bought for him either.

The museum job offered more than just money. Sure, there would be extra income and, since Mitsutomo was a major sponsor of the museum, he would be able to convert his pay easily into company credit. But more important, he'd be working close to something he liked. Sure, it was just a prole's job, but it was
in
the museum. On the museum payroll. Once on the inside he could get to know the curators, show them how much he cared about the armor and knights and all that stuff. He could impress them. Once they got to know him, they'd see he had potential. He could work with the curatorial staff in his off hours, and once they saw how much he cared, things would change. Maybe he'd get to spend a few hours cleaning stuff, then to do some work on a display. He'd work his way up. It would be far, far better than working in an office in front of a console.

He reread the letter. They wanted to have an orientation session. The letter said at John's convenience, but there was an unstated sense of urgency. John thought he understood that; Jenny in the gift shop had told him that the museum was having quite a bit of turnover among the guards.

Maybe they'd want a watchman enough to take him despite the thing with Winston.

Don't get your hopes up.

Who asked you?

There are safer places to be.

What do you mean?

Think about other things. You '11 be less disappointed.

I'm not afraid. What can they do, say they don't want me?

Mitsutomo may have a more severe reaction.

About Winston, you mean.

Winston.

It was an accident! I lost control, okay? Everybody loses control once in a while. I'll apologize to him as soon as I see him. What do you want from me, anyway?

John spent a half hour fretting and fuming alone in his room, before he could convince himself that he'd have to go on with things. If they were going to do something to him for beating up Winston, they would. Why should he help them by pummeling himself? He placed a call to the museum compsec and scheduled the orientation session for Tuesday night, opposite fencing practice. A job demand was an excuse Coach would have to accept. Missing practice would allow John to postpone the confrontation for a while longer. Maybe by the time it happened, he'd have figured out a story that wouldn't make him out to be a homicidal lunatic.

CHAPTER

7

Sorli droned through his report on Friday night's fire bombing in the village of Blaisdell Corners, and Pamela Martinez listened dutifully. She was only receiving what she had asked for, after all.

The eyewitness accounts were vague, but there was nothing vague about the three deaths and the nearly one million dollars in property damage. Sorli seemed more interested in a report by the keeper of a local tavern that one of his regulars, a known drunkard, had claimed to have seen a lone female motorcyclist fleeing from a pack of fiery hounds. He found it especially significant that the drunkard in question was found dead in the bushes the morning after the attack. The preliminary police report said that the man had died of exposure.

"Of course, that was only the
apparent
cause of death," Sorli said.

"Of course." She checked the monitor to ensure that the record function was activated; last time, their conversation had not been stored in her console's memory. "And the real cause?" "He saw those who hunted the woman. They are not yet ready to reveal themselves, and so they silence those who are unfortunate enough to discover their existence."

"Of course." Sorli's was a relentless obsession. "Yet
we
know of them. Why do they not seek to silence us?"

"They do not know that we are aware of them."