Ghosts of War (25 page)

For his part, the senator was clearly enjoying baiting Donovan, confident that he wasn't going to crumble, confident that the inspector was too much in awe of both him and the commissioner to be able to act against them. “Oh, get on with it, Donovan. Shoot me if you must. But you do realize that the only thing stopping these raptors from tearing you apart, from tearing apart everyone in this room”—at this he gave an expansive, all-encompassing gesture—”is the fact I'm still alive? They are keyed to my word. They will not act without my approval. But if I die…” He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging.

If Donovan shot, he'd be responsible for the deaths of everyone in the room. That was the bastard's fail-safe, his final bluff. And the Ghost knew that Donovan would never do it.

The Ghost watched the nose of Donovan's handgun quiver and dip. And then a gun gave a loud report from beside him, and he turned to see Rutherford, his arm outstretched, a determined expression on his face, smoke curling from the end of his pistol.

Senator Banks slumped back in his chair, blood oozing from a hole in his forehead, his mouth hanging open and slack jawed. The whiskey glass slid from his fingers, spilling its contents across the expensive carpet. The wall behind him was spattered with a collage of bright blood and brain matter.

The Ghost moved quickly, shoving Ginny and the others backward, causing her to topple over and collide with a chaise longue. He grabbed for the handles and pulled the folding doors shut behind him, holding them closed for a moment, listening to the excited bellowing coming from the other room.

And then came the sound of the raptors, screeching in delight as they dropped from their perches in the corners of the room, suddenly free to play.

“Time for us to go,” said the Ghost calmly as he helped Ginny up from the floor and led her toward the door.

Behind them, the sickening sounds of the raptors' game could be heard echoing around the empty apartment.

NINE DIE IN HOTEL MASSACRE

Police blame malfunctioning automatons
for “shocking” deaths

N
ine people have died in what police are referring to as a “horrific accident,” it was reported at a press conference in the early hours of this morning.

Details remain frustratingly unclear, but it is thought the victims include State Senator Isambard Banks, along with Police Commissioner Harold Montague and a number of other high-profile statesmen, including at least two well-known bankers from Wall Street.

A police spokesperson said the men had been attending a function at the Plaza Hotel suite of Senator Banks when a “malfunction of the senator's automaton housekeepers” is said to have occurred, resulting in the untimely deaths of all nine men.

The police have, as yet, refused to release any further details, but it is thought the automatons may have gone berserk, attacking the men as they sat down to dinner.

The female housekeeper who discovered the bodies has been taken into protective custody for questioning, and the remains of the two automatons have been seized by police for “extensive” forensic analysis.

Commissioner Montague's widow, Patricia Montague, was unavailable for comment at the time of going to press.

It remains unclear what this terrible tragedy will mean for the people of New York. While the city mourns for the loss of its leaders, the search for their replacements is already under way.

—Manhattan Globe
, Evening Edition, January 13, 1927

G
abriel surfaced slowly from sleep, languishing for a time in a dreamy, half-conscious state, reveling in the sheer indolence of a lazy morning.

Three days had passed since the wreck of
Goliath
and the subsequent events at the Plaza Hotel. His body was still recovering from the punishment it had taken that night, and as he stirred he felt his shoulder pull painfully where the raptor had buried its claws in his flesh. His body was covered by a webwork of lacerations and bruises, and he thought he'd broken a couple of ribs when he'd ridden out of the plummeting airship on the back of the raptor.

Nevertheless, for the first time in weeks, Gabriel felt happy to be alive. He and Ginny had spent the last few days enjoying each other's company, back at his house on Long Island. It had been an unexpected relief to find a few moments of stillness and peace in his usually tumultuous life, and he thanked her for that, for proving to him that he still had a life outside of the perpetual party, and the Ghost, and everything that meant.

Now, the events of the crash and everything that had happened after, at the Plaza Hotel, seemed like a distant dream. He had studiously attempted to ignore the lurid newspaper reports regarding the incident at the docks, but Ginny had insisted on pointing them out to him, each and every one, and when he'd chastised her, leaving the newspapers unread on the coffee table, she had changed tack, instead deciding to read them aloud as he drank his coffee in the drawing room.

He knew what she was doing. He'd been trying to push the memories aside, to bury them, just like he had buried so much of his past, so much of himself. He was trying to forget about the death and despair, the monsters that lurked on the threshold, just out of view. He wanted only to focus on the positive things in his life. He'd seen and done so many terrible things, and whatever the cause, however much he had acted for the best of reasons, he refused to dwell on them, to replay them over and over again in his mind's eye. To remember.

Ginny, though, knew that he had to face up to his nightmares—and his actions—just as she was learning to face up to her own. Whatever it was that had happened to her, whatever it was that had driven her to the bottle, it was something she carried with her every day. She knew how those nightmares still plagued him, every waking moment of his life. She knew because she carried them, too.

The loss of Celeste had left him feeling numb and lifeless, lost at sea. Sometimes, in the small hours when only he was awake, lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, he could still see Celeste, caught in the death throes of the alien beast, smiling serenely as she gave herself up in willing sacrifice to save the people of the city. That was a memory that would never fade, no matter whether he tried to bury it or not. But Ginny had shown him the way toward easing that burden.

Gabriel yawned and peeled open his eyes. The sun was slanting in through the blinds, draping long shadows across the bedclothes. Dust motes picked their way through the air, and outside he could hear the drone of a car engine—Henry, he presumed, running out to the store for supplies. He blinked his gummy eyelids until his eyes became accustomed to the light.

He rolled over, reaching across for Ginny, imagining running his fingers along the subtle sweep of her body. He sat up, however, when his hand encountered nothing but the cold cotton sheets. Her head had left a depression in the pillow where she'd been sleeping. He stared at it for a moment, still trying to blink away the last vestiges of sleep.

“Ginny?” he called, momentarily concerned that she'd fled during the night, like she had all those years before, running away like a scared little girl from something Gabriel had never been able to identify. For a while he'd thought it was him: that she'd been terrified of getting too close to him, or perhaps that she'd seen that darkness within him and it had caused her to run. Then she'd come back, and he'd realized that perhaps it was not.

He heard movement, and sensed her presence in the hallway outside the room.

The door swung open, creaking on its hinges, and she stood there in the opening, framed like a girl in a portrait, the blazing sunlight forming a hazy halo all around her.

She stepped into the room, and he realized she was dressed. She was wearing a red, knee-length dress and matching shoes, and she was carrying her coat folded over her arm. Her lips were painted a bright red, too, and she smiled as she saw him there, still bleary-eyed from sleep. She looked elegant, pretty, and he felt a stirring of longing. Then he saw the case she had placed in the hallway, and he realized she was there to say good-bye.

“You're leaving, aren't you?” he said quietly, watching for her reaction.

“Yes, I…Well, the time felt right,” she said, as if that explained everything. But it was good enough, Gabriel thought. It was all that she owed him.

He smiled, then. He'd expected to feel saddened when this time came, as he'd known it inevitably would. Instead, however, he felt jubilant, triumphant. He was pleased for her. Pleased that she felt ready to go. Pleased that she had waited to say good-bye, rather than disappearing in the night like before. This time, things were different. This time she really was moving on. But Gabriel knew that somehow, somewhere, he would see her again.

She hadn't come back for him, he realized. She'd come back for herself. But in doing so, she had helped him to heal. The pain he felt when he thought of Celeste—the tightness in his chest, the crashing sense of dismay—had not diminished, but somehow Ginny had shown him that there was more to be had from this life of his than just the endlessly unfulfilling cycle of the party and the violence that plagued his waking hours. That was more than enough for now.

“Do you want a drink before you go? One last bloody mary for the road?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow. “I can have it ready in a matter of moments.”

She smiled brightly, reaching for her case. “You know what? I don't think that I do,” she said.

He laughed. “Where will you go?” he said.

She shrugged. “I've always wanted to travel, to see the world. I think I might like to visit Egypt, to see the great pyramids. I've been reading this book, you see….” She trailed off, smiling sadly. She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice was soft and sad. “I think I ought to leave now, Gabriel,” she said. “Before I decide I don't want to go.”

For a moment he thought about telling her to stay, taking her in his arms and sweeping her up in an embrace, holding her close and not letting her go. In his heart, however, he knew that wouldn't do either of them any good. He nodded.

Ginny crossed to the edge of the bed, leaned over, and kissed him, deeply, on the lips. Then, straightening herself out, she turned and walked toward the door.

“Hold on, I'll walk you out,” he called after her, but she turned and smiled at him over her shoulder.

“No,” she said. “That way it's not a proper good-bye. I'll see you again, Gabriel Cross.” And with that she was gone. A moment later he heard the front door close behind her.

Gabriel lay for a while on the bed, turning things over in his mind. Then, laughing, he swung his legs over the side and made for the bathroom. He'd promised to pay a visit to Donovan later that evening, and there was a great deal he needed to do.

“S
till struggling with those stairs, Felix?” the Ghost said, laughing as he dropped onto the roof of the precinct building, his ankle rockets sputtering out in a plume of black smoke.

Donovan stepped out from behind the doorway at the top of the stairwell. “Something like that,” he replied, with a heavy frown. He stood for a moment with his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

The Ghost walked over to stand beside him. “Too many cigarettes, perhaps?”

Donovan looked up, grinning, and clapped the Ghost firmly on the shoulder. “It's good to see you, Gabriel,” he said, joyfully maneuvering the conversation in a different direction.

The Ghost laughed. “How's Flora?”

“She's getting all hot under the collar about this business with the commissioner,” Donovan said, unable to hide his grin. “She's acting like she actually
liked
the guy.” He shrugged, turning to look out across the city. The Ghost followed his gaze. The stars were shining brightly in the sky, the first clear night they'd had in weeks. “Truth be told, I think she's more concerned about me, about what might happen.”

The Ghost had been considering this. With the commissioner dead, they'd need to find a replacement. “And what
is
going to happen? Are they going to hand you the job?”

Donovan gave a deep, heartfelt chortle. “Not likely! They'll bring in someone new, someone from Brooklyn or further afield. Who knows?”

The Ghost sighed. “And so you have to start again, I suppose?”

Donovan shrugged. “I guess so,” he said, but the Ghost could tell his friend wasn't overly concerned by the impending changes. For the first time in weeks, in fact, Donovan seemed to have a spring in his step. There was something different about him. He was hopeful. He turned to the Ghost. “How's Ginny bearing up?”

“Ginny's gone, Felix,” he replied.

“Gone? Where?”

“Egypt, of all places!” Gabriel said, laughing. “Said she wanted to see the pyramids, travel the world…” He looked Donovan in the eye. “For a moment I thought I might like to go with her, get away from all of this, leave the Ghost behind, spend some time just being Gabriel for a while.”

Donovan shook his head. “The city still needs you, Gabriel. Whoever, or whatever you choose to be. The people down there need someone to believe in, someone who's going to look out for them. It sure as hell isn't going to be the police, especially if it ever comes out about the commissioner.” Donovan sighed. “Hell,
I
need you. You wouldn't believe what's landed on my desk in the last couple of days. I've got reports of a coven of witches dabbling in blood sacrifice somewhere uptown, a female bank robber on the loose—who seems, apparently, to be able to walk through walls—and word of a dangerous new drug that's been picked up by the mob. I don't even know where to start.” Donovan reached into his coat, searching out a cigarette. “So you better not tell me you're going anywhere.”

The Ghost smiled. “I'm still here, aren't I?”

“And besides,” Donovan went on, apparently on a roll, “some of those raptors are still out there, running wild. Someone needs to round them up.”

“Yes, I wondered when that was going to come up. What happened to the two we left in Banks's hotel suite?” said the Ghost. “I saw the newspapers were reporting you'd seized the remains.”

Donovan shook his head. “You should have seen that place, Gabriel. My God…what they did to those people. There was nothing left.
Nothing.
They'd been completely torn to pieces. And the raptors had gone, straight out the window. They're out there, somewhere.” He gestured toward the open vista of the city. “We checked the hangar, of course, but they'd all fled, too. Mullins is still picking over that place. It was just as bad—worse, even—than what we found at the hotel.”

“I know,” said the Ghost quietly. “I was there. I couldn't stop it.”

“You
did
stop it, Gabriel. You and Rutherford. You made a difference. It could have been so much worse.”

Both of them were silent for a moment. “What about Rutherford?” asked the Ghost. “Is he safe?”

“Jerry Robertson, the rich socialite from Boston, boarded a steamship for England this morning. He'll be home within a couple of weeks,” Donovan said, taking a long draw on his cigarette and allowing the smoke to plume luxuriously out of his nostrils.

“I wonder if they know what he did for them,” the Ghost said. “I wonder if they realize what was at stake.”

“I don't think any of us realized what was at stake,” said Donovan. “I'm not sure we ever do. We just carry on, don't we? Do what we think is right and hope that's good enough?”

“Don't get all maudlin on me, Felix. Not now. Like you said, we made a difference. That has to be enough, for both of us. It was enough for Ginny.”

Beside him, Donovan nodded.

The Ghost looked up. High above, two bright, shimmering eyes looked down on him, standing there on the rooftop, his trench coat billowing around him in the breeze. The Ghost knew that Donovan couldn't see the shining orbs, but he took comfort in their presence all the same.

The Ghost turned to Donovan, clapping him on the back. “Come on,” he said. “It sounds like you need some help with those reports.”

Donovan flicked the butt of his cigarette over the edge of the building and turned toward the stairs. “You can't come in dressed like that,” he said, a confused expression on his face.

“I know,” said the Ghost, carefully removing his hat. “But Gabriel can.”

Donovan grinned. “I'll have one of the men put the coffee on, then,” he said before disappearing through the door.

The Ghost—Gabriel—took one last look out across the rooftops of the city and then turned and followed quickly behind.