J.L. Doty - Dead Among Us 01 - When Dead Ain’t Dead Enough (15 page)

“Thank you for staying with Katherine last night?” That was McGowan’s voice.

The hippie woman answered him. “She seems to be ok. A lot of cuts and scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious.”

“And young Conklin?”

“The only thing of real concern was the concussion. But I healed that. We’ll have to let the bruises and cuts and sprains heal naturally. How long are you going to keep him asleep?”

He heard McGowan sigh wearily. “I need to think. I’ll remove the sleep spell after I’ve had a chance to think.”

Neither of them spoke for several seconds, during which Paul heard what sounded like someone stirring a spoon in a glass or coffee cup or something. The hippie broke the silence by asking, “What’re you going to do with him?”

The long silence during which McGowan didn’t answer stretched out into an ominous statement of its own. When he finally said, “I don’t know,” Paul almost jumped, almost made some noise that would have alerted the two of them to his presence.

“He deserves a chance, old man. From what Katherine told me, he saved her life three or four times.”

He snarled at her angrily, “And she wouldn’t have been in the Netherworld in the first place if it hadn’t been for him, god damn it.”

He heard her sigh. “Promise me you won’t kill him.”

“I can’t promise that. Not if he’s a rogue.”

That was all Paul needed to hear. The old Paul would’ve walked into the kitchen and tried to reason with the man, especially since the old fellow, at least in appearance, seemed eminently reasonable. But that was the old Paul, the one who hadn’t had the enlightening experience of looking down the business end of a howitzer as an ugly Russian thug that looked like Joe Stalin pulled the trigger. That was the Paul who hadn’t been chased through the halls of a hospital by a vampire, the Paul who hadn’t stood face-to-face with a hoodoo in hell, the Paul who hadn’t just heard a distinguished looking gentleman casually discuss killing him. It was at that moment he decided to adopt a new philosophy for living:
better paranoid than dead
.

The new Paul tiptoed back up the hallway, slipped quietly out the front door and headed down the street. What he didn’t hear was the end of the conversation.

“But then,” McGowan continued, “the little people have taken his side so he can’t be a rogue, probably isn’t dangerous.”

She added, “They wouldn’t side with him if he was anything at all dangerous, not in a bad way.”

McGowan capitulated easily. “Ok, I won’t kill him. In fact, I’ll protect him until I can find out what it is about him that’s got the little people giving up their traditional neutrality. And then I’ll try to teach him how to protect himself.”

Katherine limped down the busy San Francisco sidewalk, knowing she’d been foolish and vain to drive her own car. But she liked the Jaguar, especially since that dead-beat ex of hers never approved of the extravagance. When they were married she couldn’t afford extravagances, mainly because he could, with her money. No, she should’ve been practical and taken a cab right to the front door of her father’s house. She also shouldn’t have worn the damn stiletto heels. But the Louis Vuittons looked good on her.

She was a block away from her father’s place when she saw Paul emerge, skulk down the steps to the sidewalk, turn down the street and sneak away. Every nuance about him was furtive and clandestine, and her father wouldn’t have let him leave on his own, unprotected and unguarded. So he must’ve snuck out of the house, though she couldn’t really blame him for being a bit paranoid. But still, her father was the one man he could count on, the one person who might help him get through this alive.

She was too far away to shout his name, and when she tried to run or speed up, the limp and the heels made it clear that wasn’t going to happen. But he was limping too, so she followed him, hoping to catch up to him when he stopped at a streetlight.

Anogh watched Paul leave the Old Wizard’s home. And he watched the old man’s daughter watch Paul leave, then decide to follow him. And he watched Simuth ignore them both, watched him allow Paul to stroll casually up the street without so much as a glance, Katherine about a block behind him. And then there was the Seelie mage watching Simuth and Paul and Katherine, a high mage, powerful and dangerous, obviously sent by Magreth to watch and observe.

Ag had ordered Simuth to watch the Old Wizard’s home. So Simuth, in his arrogance, was focused on the powerful old man, and not the least bit concerned with this young fellow or the old man’s daughter, both of whom appeared to be, at best, minor practitioners. But the Seelie mage seemed focused on the this Paul Conklin. He hesitated for only a moment of indecision, then turned and followed close on Katherine’s heels as she followed Paul, well hidden by a glamour that turned away any mortal eye, and turned away Simuth’s eyes as well.

Though he might want to, Anogh could not assist the Seelie mage. The tenants of his oath to the Winter Court prohibited that quite clearly. But, without specific instructions from Ag, those same tenants did not obligate him to openly oppose the Summer Court. So Anogh followed the mage as he followed Katherine, as she followed Paul.

The events of the last few days had taught Paul to be wary. But he had to try hard not to skulk suspiciously down the street. He was so paranoid at this point he feared if he looked too wary or fearful, combined with his bandaged, battered and bruised face, he’d attract the attention of every cop in town. And that, he knew, was just more paranoia.

He wanted to get to the east bay, so he turned down Nob Hill on Powell Street, headed for the Powell Street BART Station. But he needed cash, because cash couldn’t be traced, and he didn’t know how powerful his enemies were. So he stopped at an ATM and withdrew a fist full. He knew not to turn and start counting a bundle of twenties walking down the street, counted it carefully in the shadow of the ATM, then shoved it into his wallet and turned to continue down the street.

“Paul.”

He stopped at the sound of his name, stopped because he recognized Katherine’s voice. He turned around, watched her limp down the street toward him, looking incredible in a dark pinstripe suit. She’d chosen a man’s style of suit, pants, white shirt and tie. But this was no man’s suit, cut to emphasize her figure, and the pants ended in stiletto heels that looked to be expensive. He decided it wouldn’t be politic to mention the practicality of stiletto heels combined with a limp.

“You snuck out of my father’s house, didn’t you?” She didn’t seem as angry as she sounded.

“Ya! Of course I did. He wants to kill me.”

She grimaced and shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. He wants to help you.”

“Then why did he say he wants to kill me?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “He said that? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it, sister.” She was irritating him so he played the stiletto heel card. “With all the bruising you took, don’t you think the heels are a bit impractical?”

Her eyes flashed angrily, so he added, “Though I do have to admit you look pretty good in them.”

Her eyes remained angry, but her lips curled up into a smile. He was about to tell her the story of the conversation he’d overheard between McGowan and the old hippie, but over her shoulder he caught a glimpse of a rather tall man who stood staring directly at him and seemed oddly out of place, one of those passing glances that didn’t register on conscious thought until a moment after it was over. It made Paul hesitate and look back toward the fellow. But as his eyes settled on the spot where he knew the man was standing, his gaze slipped to one side and his attention was drawn to a young woman nearby. Now that was odd.

He tried again, swung his eyes back toward the man, but they shifted past him to an older couple struggling up Nob Hill. It was like trying to take hold of something greased and slippery. Paul tried twice more to look at the fellow, and each time he found it impossible to do so, found his gaze sliding unerringly away from the tall figure. But always, he was left with the impression the man stood there staring directly at him.

Katherine had been saying something about how he could trust her father, and he cut her off abruptly. “There’s something weird going on here.”

He had to give her credit. She shifted gears instantly. Her eyes narrowed, she hesitated for a moment, then asked, “What?”

Paul purposefully looked away from the tall guy, closed his eyes and tried to reconstruct what he thought he’d seen. “There’s this tall guy standing about fifty feet behind you up the street. Distinguished looking, handsome, fortyish, stands a head taller than everyone around him. He’s wearing a dark business suit that seems a little out of place here. And he’s carrying a walking stick as if he’s stepped out of Savile Row in London. All he needs now is a bowler hat to complete the image.”

Paul concentrated on the image in his mind’s eye. The distance was too great for him to be certain, but  . . . “And I think he has fucking pointed ears.”

Only a few days ago he would’ve shrugged the incident off, chalked it up to inattention, or his imagination, or any of a hundred things real people dealt with every day. But not today, not the new Paul. He’d learned the hard way not to shrug off anything strange, unusual or out-of-place.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she didn’t dismiss him out-of-hand. “Try to look at him again. Try to focus hard on him.”

Paul slid his eyes toward the fellow and tried, and his gaze slid off him as if he wasn’t there. “I can’t. I know he’s there, but when I try to look directly at him I find myself looking at something nearby.”

Katherine leaned toward Paul, put her arms around his neck, leaned forward so her lips were close to his ear. “Pretend we’re lovers,” she whispered.

He thought he might like pretending that, so he put his hands around her waist and pulled her close, knew full well he was using the subterfuge as an excuse to do so. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t really respond either. She continued in a whisper, “This is scary. You’re describing a Sidhe, probably a high mage. He’s using a glamour that turns your eyes away, a compulsion that forces you to look at something nearby, but never him. And you say he’s looking straight at you.”

He leaned back a bit so they were face-to-face, their lips a fraction of an inch apart, and he looked into her eyes. “Staring at me like no normal person, like some crazy stalker.”

She moved a little closer so that, as she spoke, her lips were brushing lightly against his. “He can get away with that since no one can see past the glamour. And the fact that you can  . . .

“Shit!” She started and pulled away from him. “Don’t try to look directly at him. If he realizes you can see through his glamour it might piss him off. He might even kill you. We have to get out of here.”

He regretted that their little moment of intimacy had ended so abruptly. “I’m headed for the BART station.” He took her by the arm and turned down Powell. She walked beside him, both of them limping.

When he glanced over his shoulder and confirmed that pointy-ears was following them, she said, “Don’t be too obvious.”

When they got to Post Street he leaned toward her as if he was kissing her on the neck and hissed, “Crowds in Union Square. Let’s try to lose him there.” They cut diagonally through the Square.

There were quite a few people taking advantage of a warm summer evening, listening to street musicians, kids gawking at the guy painted head-to-foot in silver and pretending to be a statue. Paul purposefully sought out thick clusters of people through which he and Katherine edged their way carefully. And as he did so he looked repeatedly over his shoulder. He didn’t see the tall man again, but several times someone in the crowd appeared to be jostled aside almost rudely. And more than once the victim stopped and turned indignantly to confront the jerk who’d shoved them, but there was never anyone there, never a culprit upon which to blame such rudeness. But Paul had learned if he allowed his gaze to slide past the disruption, he was left with the unmistakable impression of the tall man in the dark suit. And now he was certain the fellow had pointed ears.

He took Katherine’s hand and leaned toward her. “The fucker definitely has pointy ears,” he whispered, “and he’s definitely following us. Let’s head for the Montgomery Street BART Station.”

At the far corner of Union Square they turned down Geary Street. He’d learned he could keep track of the fellow following him by never trying to look directly at him. Instead he’d look at something nearby, then let his gaze drift past where he thought the fellow might be, which left a strange, ghostlike impression.

After a couple of blocks they turned east on Market Street, conscious of the wraithlike being following them.

Anogh’s excitement grew as he followed the Seelie mage and Paul and Katherine. The mage had cast a powerful spell that made one’s eyes turn away from him, even more powerful because of its subtlety. And yet the young man had seen through the glamour, a feat few mortals could achieve, which led Anogh to the conclusion Paul was a wizard of unusual talent. Perhaps not powerful in the sense of wielding arcane magics, but certainly unusually strong in his ability to see through the magics of others.

Anogh followed them down Powell Street, then through Union Square, watched as Paul grew steadily more aware of the pursuit behind him, watched as the Seelie mage arrogantly shoved mortal’s aside to keep up with them. This could be a most interesting confrontation. Then they turned down Market Street.