Labyrinth (Book 5) (33 page)

The high-tension whine of the grid wound down, and the harsh carmine of the Grey drained back to a few splashes of uncomfortably bright color in the glaring silver mist of the world. Cameron relaxed and an ordinary shuffling and rustling of impatient bodies warmed the silence.

“Will you support me and defend me, aid me and advise me, with your best will?” Cameron asked. It had the feeling of something formal and old that had been translated poorly.

Carlos raised his head, looking at Cameron a little sideways with a sarcastic expression. “Yes, damn it all. Can we get this over with? I am your man, your sworn supporter, by blood bound. Is that good enough?”

Cameron blinked. “Um . . . yeah. I guess that’ll do.”

“May I stand up, now . . . my lord?” The snark was thick enough to gag on. “And if you tell me to ‘rise,’ ” he added in an undertone, “I may have to ‘advise’ you to do otherwise in future.”

Cameron rolled his eyes. “Oh, jeez, just get up.”

A ripple of amusement spread through the room and gave cover to my relieved sigh. I’d had no idea if this sketchy plan would work, but even if they didn’t buy it completely, none of the vampires could argue that Carlos hadn’t sworn to support Cameron. That alone would give anyone other than the Pharaohn pause, and Cameron’s loyalty and reasonable treatment of his teacher would give them hope for the same themselves. Benevolent dictators are much harder to depose.

I remembered the rest of the evening’s responsibilities and hoped Carlos and I would be able to leave soon. I needed to talk to him before anyone else made any moves and let him know we were far from done tonight. And I hoped that away from the bloody rage of vampires, I might be able to think without so much noise in my head for just a few minutes.

Once Carlos was back on his feet, the patrons of the After Dark seemed to know the show was over and drifted back to their tables and conversations, speculating, no doubt, on what Cameron would do first as Prince of the City. Only the asetem acted disinterested. Gwen and Sarah had retired back to one end of the table, bent toward each other like parentheses. I frowned as I glanced at Cameron, but he was busy with a sudden press of admirers and sycophants.

I looked for Carlos—no one would think it odd that I did, since I was there as a neutral party and I could talk to whomever I pleased—and spotted him near the door. Just one more scene to play. . . . I twisted my way through the moving kaleidoscope of bright colors and cold bodies to catch up to him before he went outside. Once out of the club, there was nothing to stop the asetem from closing in.

I met him at the entrance. He gave me a chilly glance with one lifted eyebrow. We hadn’t discussed this bit of business, but he was even more the experienced performer than I was and I was sure he’d pick up my cue and play along. I made only a small twitch of my head toward the door before I spoke, but I knew he caught it.

“I wouldn’t have expected that of you,” I said, not modulating my voice down. I wanted to be heard, after all.

“Obeisance?”

“Betrayal.”

He narrowed his eyes but made no other reply.

“Everyone knows you hate Edward and you took Cameron only because you couldn’t refuse—”

“A situation you engineered.”

“For Cameron’s sake. Not Edward’s. But he’s been a loyal student. He’s been your friend—if that’s possible. And you were going to kill his sister and bind him to you so you could . . . what, watch him twist in the wind while you abandoned him? That’s not any better than what Edward—”

He clamped his hand onto my bicep and jerked me close. “Enough, Greywalker!”

“No,” I protested, “it’s not enough.”

He growled and pulled me into the cold of the foyer, letting the black doors slam shut behind us. Sounds came down from the street in ice-blue trickles and leaked thinly from under the door like water. The area was built like a well, all white marble with a curving, iron-railed staircase going up the circular shaft to a gate on the street. It wasn’t an ideal place to talk, but it would do for a moment.

Carlos let go of me at once and kept his voice low. “An unpleasant evening’s work.”

“Yes, but now the little kingdom is secure and you’re Cameron’s sworn right-hand man.”

“So much mumbo jumbo. None of those would know the difference. There is no binding. Only my word.”

“Which is as good as, I recall.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t betray him, not after what Edward did to you.”

He nodded, his mouth pulling down in distaste.

“What about the magic? What about Sarah?”

“Special effects.” He spread his fingers and I could see white cuts and lines in his flesh between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, knitting up as I watched. “One learns a lot of tricks in such a long lifetime. She’s in no danger. I took care to feed well on waking.”

“I hope it’ll last: We’re not done.”

The interrogative eyebrow rose again.

“The labyrinth portals expire tonight and after that, there’s no back door.”

“We don’t need it. Only the right knife and you. The Lâmina I have with me. And you . . .” He peered at me in the darkness that was bright as Broadway to me. He pulled his head back and frowned. “Already?”

“If I were any more in touch with the grid, I’d disappear into it.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think he knows?”

Carlos snorted. “No doubt he’s known for hours. We shall have to let them take us.”

I disliked the sound of that, but it was the same conclusion I’d come to myself since I didn’t know where Wygan would do his dirty work.

“Are you ready?”

I shook my head. “I . . . need to make a phone call first.”

He laughed at that, but he let me walk a few feet away and do it. I noticed the earlier missed call was from the phone in Edward’s bunker. It must have been Quinton and that pleased me at the same time it made me sad. I’d only have time to tell him the bare bones of the situation before I’d have to go, and my chances of coming back weren’t good. I called anyway.

Quinton answered at once. “Harper?”

“Yeah.”

I could hear his sigh through the phone, and it slid over me, soft and warm. “I was with the police and the FBI all day—”

A finger of concern touched me. “The feds didn’t suss you—?” I started.

“No, no,” he reassured me. “But things didn’t move as fast as we’d hoped. I was worried. . . .”

“It’s almost over. We’ve settled some things and now . . . it’s just up to the bad guy to come get us.”

The door opened from the club and the two asetem stepped out. They stared at us with baleful, glowing eyes.

“Ah, the escort is here,” I said.

“Is it Goodall?”

“No,” I answered. “Why?”

The asetem were walking toward us, trying to herd us up the stairs without actually touching us and causing a scene. Carlos glowered at them but let himself be moved, though he kept them away from me so I could finish my phone call. It was what we wanted after all, but we couldn’t make it look too easy.

“Goodall is bad news. Ex-military, ex–black ops. The Feds wouldn’t even say which group, but they got quiet and worried when we showed them the recording.”

“But we knew he was that sort of trouble. He won’t hurt us. He’s on Wygan’s leash.”

The asetem hissed at me, and one of them darted in my direction, forcing me toward the stairs a few steps. I could see the shape of someone at the top. . . .

“Stay away from Goodall! He doesn’t want to capture you; he wants to kill you! And I mean in a not-getting-back-up-this-time way. The bullet hole in the Danzigers’ doorway was at head height. Head height, do you understand? He had all the time in the world to take the shot; it’s not a mistake. If he’d just wanted to knock you down and drag you to Wygan, he’d have chosen to shoot you anywhere else, but he was aiming to blow your head off. That’s what took out your father. That would kill you, too. He is not playing by Wygan’s rules: He means to take you out permanently!”

The light was odd, but it illuminated the waiting figure better as we rounded the first few steps.

“Ah,” I said and closed the phone, slipping it back into my pocket.

That was Goodall at the top of the stairs.

THIRTY-ONE

R
un like hell. That’s what my brain said. Even in the strange, broken light through the gate with the glare of the Grey welling up, I could see the dark, squared-off shape of a pistol in Goodall’s hand. Parkerized black. He had no reason to harm Carlos—and a gun certainly wouldn’t do it—so that was for me.

One of the asetem grew impatient and pushed on my shoulders, urging me up. I let the motion take me forward at the waist and kicked back hard with one foot. Even as strong and fast as the asetem were, a boot to the chest will knock almost anyone down those slippery marble stairs.

Goodall cursed as I grabbed on and swung over the stair rail, rolling and dropping to the floor. The impact jarred through my body and I heard the crack of a shot. I ducked and ran back under the staircase, cutting for the door into the club. There was a scrambling and banging on the stairs behind me but I didn’t turn around to see what it was. The stair and its shaftlike opening blocked a good shot at me as I bolted, but that didn’t stop Goodall from taking some. Shards of marble ricocheted around the dark space as I plunged through the door.

The host usually stopped everyone, but he stood aside this time and pointed. “Door at the back.”

I ran through the main room at my best late-for-rehearsal speed, dodging bodies and jumping tables. It wasn’t graceful and I had to shove a few vampires and their friends aside. None of them moved to stop me, which was amazing. Vampires aren’t slow or weak, and just two or three could have caught me easily. I heard Cameron shout for someone to “stop those two!” which explained a lot. I spotted the discreet white door to the back room and pushed through it.

Vampire kitchens are not a sight for health inspectors. It’s not that they aren’t clean but that they aren’t really kitchens that’s disturbing. I dodged a lot of things that could have been prep tables but looked more like cots as I went through.

Nearly every building in Pioneer Square has a basement or two, and most have a door that leads into the underground—the network of abandoned sidewalks that ring the buildings at what was once street level. The downside is that there’s no way to cross the street without coming up to the surface. I had to assume Goodall had some more of Wygan’s asetem with him and they’d be spread out around the street—what else did they have to do now that their Pharaohn’s big night was at hand but roll up the competition? I’d have to come up where I could check for them before they could see me. That would mean the staircase by the old record store.

Bud’s Jazz Records had been in the basement near Temple Billiards for ages, but it had finally given in to declining sales and closed its doors. Now the old space was empty and I’d spent enough time in the underground with Quinton to know where the original back door was. It would be locked and alarmed, but at that moment, I didn’t care if I pulled in every cop in the district. It was pretty likely I’d get out before anyone arrived, but even if I didn’t, there’s little more secure from most bad guys than being surrounded by pissed-off patrolmen. Suicidal villains are a different problem, but I didn’t think Goodall or his asetem friends were willing to trade themselves for me just yet. They might be if they didn’t get me to Wygan tonight, but I didn’t plan to miss that party; I just meant to arrive my own way. I didn’t know what that was going to be, but I’d figure it out when I stopped running for my life.

I skidded around a corner on the filth of a hundred years’ neglect and slammed into a set of steel construction doors. Someone was doing work in the underground, and to secure the area from people just like me, they’d put up a barrier. Damn it! I didn’t hear anyone behind me, but that meant nothing. I was humped.

Except that I wasn’t. I was a Greywalker, and this was about as Grey as Seattle got: the depths of the old city where ghosts were as common as dirt and the layers of time slid and chimed over one another like slices of broken glass. I started to put my hand out by habit to feel for the temporaclines, but I didn’t need to. The bright glow of the grid as I now saw it turned the ripples of time into colored banners fluttering horizontally in an uncanny wind. And I didn’t need to slide onto one; I simply reached and it bent. I stepped through.

It was a miserable day I’d picked: pouring rain, the streets so muddy that cart horses bogged in it up to their fetlocks and had to be hauled up onto the wooden sidewalks while their wagons were cut free to sink until someone could come back for the goods. The ghosts of the early shopkeepers paid me no attention at all as they tried to save their stock of one kind or another. I slogged through the phantom mud, which felt as slimy and sticky as the real thing, to the waterfront and down the length of Yesler’s wharf toward the sawmill. The old dock area had long ago been filled in and made into the land on which the current waterfront and Alaskan Way stood within inches of the old level. That would be well out of the zone any of the Pharaohn’s henchmen would be watching and safe enough to appear in. I’d never exited a temporacline below the present world’s street level and I didn’t want to find out what would happen if I did.

I stumbled a little as I came out not far from Rice House Antiques. The warehouse was locked up for the night, even the red London phone box tucked away inside. I checked to be sure I wasn’t wearing the haunting of hundred-year-old mud and crossed the street to the ferry terminal. A few lonely cabs stood at the curb waiting for anyone returning on foot from Bremerton or the islands. I got in one and directed the driver to the Westin Hotel. It’s a big building near TPM, but not so near that you can see it from there, and I thought I could find a place to lurk long enough to figure out my next move.

And call Quinton to let him know I wasn’t dead yet.

THIRTY-TWO

M
y phone buzzed as I walked into the Westin lobby. I didn’t stop to look at the number, I just opened it up and answered. “Quinton?” “H-Harper?” The voice was shaking so hard the word barely came out, but I still recognized the speaker.

“Will?”

“Run . . .” he started, but his voice trailed away as someone else snatched the phone. “ ’Ello there . . . ‘little girl.’ It appears your friend ’as dropped by to play. . . .”

I swore. “Haven’t you had enough fun torturing that man, Wygan? You won’t get anything from him and his mind’s already too broken to be much good.”

“Oh, but there is still blood in ’im and, as you say, the fun of it. And of course there is your father. . . .”

“Why hold on to him? He’s dead. How much satisfaction can you get from tormenting a ghost?”

“Not enough, that’s true. They really are somewhat unsatisfac’try. But you do ’ave quite a few other friends. I’m not overfond of witches, so I might take a particular delight in the anguish of that cozy little family. They are quite nearby. . . .”

Broadcast tower. That’s where they were. The idea came into my head illuminated by another: I still had a back door. Wherever Wygan was, the ghost of my father was nearby, which meant that the door opened to within a few feet of the Pharaohn. It was behind a barrier in the Grey, but I thought my current affinity for the grid might allow me to tear through that barrier. I just had to get close enough to use it unseen and I could step out almost on top of him. Then I would have Carlos to help me destroy the Pharaohn for good.

“That’s enough,” I said. “I’m coming.”

“Ah, good. I knew you’d want to play your part.”

“What I want is to rip your head off.” And I did, but it had a distant, intellectual kind of appeal at that moment. I didn’t feel the burn of hate I would have expected, just a clear, steel-strong certainty that he needed to be removed from existence. Now.

“I suspect you shall be disappointed.”

“I don’t think so.” I hung up on him. It was a small, cold satisfaction, but at least it was mine. I wasn’t completely lost to humanity yet.

I called Quinton again, cutting in the moment he answered. “I’m all right. I slipped Goodall but I have to go stop Wygan—”

“No, you don’t! He can’t force you. If you don’t cooperate, he can’t get what he wants.”

“I don’t intend to cooperate, but I can’t let him hurt people. He has Will, he is threatening the Danzigers, and you know what he will do once he has his way. He has to be stopped for good. What’s happening to me is almost finished. If it goes on to the end, I believe I will . . . I’ll just disappear into the grid. It is pulling on me, singing me into it, and my ability to remain separate is failing. My father suggested there’s a way to stop that, but putting an end to the Pharaohn is the only chance I may have. And the only thing that matters. You said someone’s not coming out of this alive. I would rather choose who and how this ends than hope for the best.”

“Harper, don’t—”

“He’s somewhere around broadcast tower two—maybe the park or the buildings nearby—and so is Goodall. You’ll know when you spot it. But don’t come too soon: The cops wouldn’t like what they’d see.”

I wasn’t being entirely truthful: I wasn’t going there to save Will or anyone else, not myself, not even my father. That would be nice, but I no longer had the luxury of pity, or even the fleeting sense of it, and that wasn’t what was moving me toward the towers on Queen Anne Hill. This had been my intention since London: to destroy that which had manipulated and ruined my life. Now the need was greater than me and mine. Gwen had been right to call me ruthless. In the dispassionate influence of the grid, compassion—perhaps humanity—had died in me. Only the job remained: Paladin of the Dead, Hands of the Guardian.