Nightlord: Orb (38 page)

“My heart bleeds for her,” I observed.  “On the other hand, she did put her life in jeopardy by warning me about the upcoming trouble.  I suppose I can’t blame her if she regrets it now.”

I wouldn’t say she regrets it so much as she worries about it.  It excites her to be on an adventure, or in danger, or whatever it is.  Something about her
likes
this.  She’s unhappy she doesn’t see a way out of it.  She also doesn’t want you to die, Boss.  She likes you, in a frightened fashion, and being scared of you also excites her, like I said.

“That’s kind of sad, actually.”

Man of mystery, Boss.  Nothing like a riddle in a mystery in an enigma, or something.  Besides, she likes being scared.

“She does?”

She does and she knows it.  She’s immortal and enjoys adventure.  It keeps her from being bored, Boss.

“I’m immortal and I’m not bored.”

Have you looked at your so-called life, lately?

“Maybe you have a point.”

And an edge.

“Ouch.  I don’t suppose you have any ideas on how to deal with vampire society?”

Cut them to pieces and burn the pieces until they give up or run out of vampires,
Firebrand replied, without hesitation.

“How about any
helpful
ideas?”

That’s not helpful?
Firebrand asked.  It sounded genuinely puzzled.

“It’s only helpful if we can surprise lots of them together at one time.  If word gets around we’re picking off individuals or small groups, they’ll start using new tactics.”

Well, that’s not fair.

“Maybe not, but we have to assume they’ll cheat.  They’re undead monsters, after all.”

Good point.  You can’t trust those bastards.

“Meanwhile,” I went on, ignoring the comment, “I need to try and wake Mary.”  I added more wood to the fire, building it up to a roar.  “Don’t let the fire get out of hand,” I cautioned.

I’m on it, Boss.

I went downstairs and shook Mary a little.  She lay there, limp as a corpse.  I tried a number of small, painful things—bending a finger, pressing some nerve points, that sort of thing.  No response.  I even fetched a lighter and lightly burned the edge of her hand.  No reaction, aside from a little singeing.

Well, so much for that experiment.  Daytime corpses seem to stay that way.  I’ll try again after sunset and see if she can wake up early.

Yep.

After my sunset shower and change, I went downstairs and started trying to wake her.  All it took was a little poking and prodding and she stirred.

“Evening, sleepyhead,” I offered.  “The sun has been down for a quarter of an hour and you’re still lying there, dead to the world.  Come on.  The night’s a-wasting!”

She stretched and sat up, then unwrapped the towel from around her head.  Long, pale-blonde hair tumbled down over her shoulders.  The combination of the blonde hair, the blue eyes, and the athletic figure put me in mind of Scandinavian models, but without the eating disorders.

“Nice,” I observed.  “Is that the hairstyle you had at the moment you died?”

“Yes.  I figured longer hair can always be cut, but shorter hair requires a wig.”  She shook her head, fluffed her hair, rang fingers through it.  “It’s a fright when I first grow it out.  Do you have a snack for me before I hit the bathroom?”

“Right here.”

She drank her breakfast and we tested another vial of rabbit blood.  Still edible, apparently, but according to her, disgusting.  I took her word for it.  If the blood will crawl across the table to soak into my skin, it’s good enough for me.  Ogre blood goes bad fairly quickly if you leave it in the corpse, I know that.  On the other hand, I’ve drunk bloody juice from a package of frozen steaks.  Refrigeration is key.

While she was in the shower, I called Larry to find out what was up with Mark.  He put me on the phone with Susan; she took the call from the hospital.  Mark had suffered a fall, resulting in a severe blow to the head.  That was all she knew.

My suspicious nature was still ticking over.  Hospital patients don’t spend much time wandering around.  It was possible he was well enough to walk to the toilet instead of dealing with a catheter, but a slip and a fall?  Hospitals
hate
that sort of thing.  They even put perfectly healthy people in wheelchairs to take them out of the building.  What were the odds Mark actually had an accident?

Mary came out of the bathroom with her red dress again.  Her hair was done differently, too.  It still looked rather wild, but now it was an artistic wild instead of I-just-woke-up hair.

“I’m going into the city to visit a sick friend,” I told her, “and find out who tried to kill him.  Then I’m going on a murder spree or a rampage, depending.  Want to come along?”

“I wish you’d tell me these things before I pick my outfit,” she complained.

“I just found out.”

“Excuses.”  She ran her fingers through her hair and frowned.  “What’s the difference between a murder spree and a rampage?” she asked.

“Scale.”

“Let me change clothes.”

We dressed in jeans, practical shoes, shirts, and light coats to keep the rain off.  Mary put her hair in a ponytail and added a baseball cap to keep her hair mostly dry.

There was little else to discover at the hospital.  Mark was still unconscious in the ICU and likely to remain that way.  I didn’t get much out of the staff, since I wasn’t a relative.  Mary managed to wrangle some information out of a doctor by claiming to be Mark’s girlfriend.  Mark had a bleed in his brain from the impact, which they fixed.  The only question now was how much damage had been done to the brain.  As for how Mark managed to hit his head, the doctor had no idea—or was instructed by the corporate lawyers to not say anything due to potential liability of the hospital.

Mary and I sat in a waiting room, leaned against each other like a tired couple, and whispered.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“I suspect some unpleasant elements of organized crime want Mark to drop conveniently dead.”

“Powers?”

“I sincerely doubt Powers wants to have anything to do with this.  In fact, I would bet hard money he recommended against it, if anyone asked his opinion.”

“Powers’ boss?”

“More likely.  Thing is, I don’t know for certain this is anything more than an unfortunate accident.  I need a few minutes alone with Mark to find out.”

“He’s comatose and almost certainly brain damaged,” she pointed out.

“I plan to pull his soul out, ask it, then put it back.”

Mary didn’t argue it.  She didn’t even ask if I was serious.  She turned her head to stare at me for a few seconds, then nodded and moved on.

“Okay.  I can distract the nurses at the station.  You walk by like you know exactly what you’re doing and they won’t pay any attention to you.”

“Suits me.”

Mary did her part in getting the nurses attention; semi-hysterical wives are good for that.  I don’t even know what her story was, but it seemed effective.  I ignored her and walked calmly by.

Mark was well and truly out.  At least hospitals in this time and place don’t beep constantly.  The numbers didn’t mean much to me, aside from basic things like heartbeat and respiration.

Gary was curled up in a chair, asleep.  I touched him with a tendril, checking to see how tired he was.  Pretty tired, but that was to be expected.  His healing spell was still running and his father was gravely injured.  Either one is tiring, but both are exhausting.

Mark’s healing spell was only aimed at his burns.  I added some power to it and told it to work on his brain, too, to get it back into shape.  It would ramp up his natural healing process and expand on it.  Things that wouldn’t heal naturally could do so; things that would heal with scars wouldn’t leave scars; things that would heal completely would heal faster. 

I wove tendrils all through him, felt out the shape of his soul, and stretched it a bit.  That didn’t work too well on its own; I had to cobble together a magical matrix to help it.  That took a while.  Some of the bindings between the soul and the flesh were more fragile than I liked.  I had to reinforce those at the same time I stretched them in order to get him to answer questions.  Think of it as having his ghost sit up while his body didn’t.  He never actually came out of his body.  He became a little distant from it in spots, that’s all.

I kept tendrils wrapped around his head, effectively blindfolding his spirit.  I didn’t want him to see me like this.  Come to that, I didn’t want him to see
him
like this.

“Who did this?” I asked, softly, pulsing the question mentally down the strands.

“What’s happening?”

“You’re in the hospital and getting better.  Now shut up and answer the question.”

“It was Weaver and Russel,” he said.  “Who are you?  Where am I?”

“I’m the Dark and you’re in the hospital.  Where can I find these two and who do they work for?”

Mark and I discussed matters for a bit.  When I felt I had all the information, I put him back into his body, made sure he was tacked down inside it, and double-checked my healing spell.  It really needed more power, but I didn’t have enough to charge it properly.  With luck, it would let him recover enough to go home and regular therapy could take it from there.

But I knew I’d come back to visit and add that little extra.  I’m such a sucker for a happy ending.

Walking out of ICU attracted a little attention, but nobody tried to stop me.  Leaving isn’t nearly as likely to disturb patients.  The staff wants you to leave; you’re one less person in the way.

Mary and I regrouped in the lobby and walked out into the light, cold rain and gusty winds.  Nobody was anywhere near us.  Almost nobody was out on the street at all.

“Find out what you wanted to know?” she asked, taking my arm and pressing close as we walked away.

“I think so.  Do you know any enforcers named Weaver or Russel?”

“Not that I recall.”

“How about a mid-level boss named Tyrone?”

“That name I know.  He has a hand in most of the stolen merchandise in the city. I haven’t met him, but I’ve sold a few pricey things to people who work directly for him, I think.  Powers is under him, I’m sure.  I’m not sure what else he’s into.”

“Want to burn his house down?  Or do you want to watch?” I asked.  The rain slowed to a drizzle as we walked.

“Can it wait a day?” she asked.

“I suppose, but why?”

“If you’re going to be a hell of a distraction, I’d like to rob the place.”

“I’m going to be the distraction from Hell,” I assured her, chuckling.  “Guardian demon, remember?”

“I bet Tyrone will.  If he lives.”

“No promises.”

Mary and I went shopping.  She knew what she wanted and where to get it.  All I did was pay for it.  Afterward, we swung by her bank and the all-night terminal there.  She did some money-juggling.  I’m not sure what, exactly, but it gave her some cash and put her balance into some other account, presumably covering her financial tracks.  I don’t know what she did with the terminal or what instructions she gave.  That’s modern finance for you—more complicated than Hohmann transfer orbits or calculating eclipses.

“Any chance your relatives will trace you by the money?” I asked.

“Oh, they’ll do that,” she assured me.  “As long as I’m not at the bank when they show up, the best they can do is tell I’m still around town.”

“Works for me.”

We went to an all-night coffee place and Mary did some cybering.  Aerial views of the neighborhood where Tyrone lived, his house and surrounding grounds, street views of the place, that sort of thing.  Then we went for a drive down his street and around the neighborhood.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Nice wall, but it’s for show,” she told me.  “The front gate is real, but aside from the guard on it, it’s not much.  The whole outer perimeter is nothing but an elaborate tripwire, really.  Having dogs and live guards on the grounds means they don’t have motion sensors outside.  My feeling is the guards are muscle in suits, not professional security.  The dogs aren’t a problem if you know what you’re doing.

“The house itself,” she continued, “is trickier.  There’s no telling what sort of security they have.  But that’s part of what makes it fun.”

“So, you have a plan?”

“Yep.  You’re going to like it.”

“I am?” I asked, dubious.

“Of course.  Don’t you want to rescue me?  It is your turn, you know.”

“I suppose it is.  Tell me more.”

Friday, November 6
th

Mary put together her new housebreaking outfit.  I sucked up all the power from another Stall and did some work with a scrying mirror and a sketchpad.  She didn’t ask me how I got the layout of the house and the location of both safes.  She took the notes, kissed my cheek, and told me I was the best accomplice she’d ever had.

I’ve never been called
that
before.

After sunrise, I went down to the local animal shelter to find myself a dog.  This did not go well.  I walked in the front, into the business office portion of the building, and I heard the rising wails and rattling cages in the back.  I didn’t even get to talk to anyone; someone from the back burst into the front and demanded help—the cats were going crazy and the dogs were barking and everything was going to hell in a handbasket!

I wandered back out.  Hopefully, things calmed down.  I guess cats really don’t like me.  Shame about that.  I don’t have anything against them.  I suppose it goes with being a part-time undead.  Once again, I am tragically understood.

As a result, it took me most of the day to get a dog.  I had to go cyberhunting for people trying to get rid of one.  On the plus side, the dog I got came with shot records, chew toy, pet bed, the works.  She was a mixed-breed of German shepherd and black Labrador, I think; she didn’t have a pedigree.  She used to be the husband’s dog, but when the wife kicked him to the curb, it was time for the dog to go, too.  Since his apartment didn’t allow dogs, it was a case of free-to-a-good-home.

She didn’t like me a whole lot, at least to begin with.  We sat down with Firebrand and had a nice, long talk.  She still wasn’t too thrilled about being adopted by me, but meeting the Four-minus-one helped settle her in.  They liked her instantly; she liked them.  I think having a huge yard also helped.  If I had to live in the house, too… well, that was acceptable.

I made sure Francine got to meet Bronze.  Bronze and Francine were indifferent to each other; Bronze doesn’t care and Francine thinks metal things are metal things.  Francine and I would talk about Myrna later.

The Three took a vote.  Her name is Francine.  I made sure to let Francine know that.  She was good about it, since the Three wanted it that way.  She also helped keep the Three occupied around the stand while nothing happened; the charity drive was pretty much done.

“One more day,” Fred encouraged them.  “It’s the weekend.  Most people can’t make time during the week.”

“He’s right,” I added.  “It’s a Saturday.  People get stuff done on Saturdays.”

One more day, they agreed.  Fred gave me a knowing look.

We sorted out what little we’d collected and everyone went home.  The kids went to dinner.  I installed a dog door in back.  Afterward, I went to collect gems from my attic and cast some spells for later.

Having finished with the day, I took my sunset shower and re-introduced myself to Francine.  She was
not
amused.  I tried tackling the problem from a predator standpoint:  If I’m the alpha predator, she’s part of my pack, like the kids.  That means anything and anyone else that might frighten or threaten Francine has to deal with
me
.

Francine’s doggy logic liked that much better.  Of course, I had to go through it with her again after I woke Mary up.

“New dog?” Mary asked, puzzled.

“First dog,” I corrected.  “Nosy neighbor has been trying to peep in the windows.”

“Ah.  Have you seen my prybar?”

“The miniature one?  It’s in the kitchen.  The blackening stuff has dried, too.”

“Good.”

We got our stuff together.  She trimmed her hair down to a shorter, sort of pageboy cut and darkened it to a rich brown color.  She dressed for cat-burglary; I dressed for fantasy monster intimidation value, complete with armored underwear and enormous sword.  Mary looked me over and pronounced me beautiful and terrifying.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“By the way, am I correct in assuming you wear some sort of contact lenses?”

“Yep.”

“May I ask why?”

I took out one of my eyeball contacts and gave her my best one-eyed glare.  I’d think it’s hard to tell where I’m actually looking, what with the lack of iris or pupil.  Maybe the other eye gave it context.

“Ah,” she gulped.  “Yes, that’s a good reason.  Remember to take those out before you start trying to terrify anyone.”

“That bad?”

“No.  But all they’ll remember is the eyes.  I promise.”

“Fair enough.  Speaking of memorable features,” I added, putting my eye covering back in, “do cat burglars normally show that much cleavage?”

“Most cat burglars don’t
have
this much cleavage.”

“I don’t know any professional cat burglars, but I absolutely believe you.  May I ask why you’re going with that look?”

“Well, when they catch me, I’ll put my hands on the back of my head, like this,” she demonstrated, “and get down on my knees, like this, and pull my shoulders back, like so…” Under tension, the zipper on her jumpsuit opened even farther down her front.  She looked up at me imploringly.  “Please,
please
don’t hurt me…” she whimpered, widening her blue, blue eyes. 

“Well, it’ll certainly keep you from being killed out of hand,” I admitted.  “It might not be good as a long-term strategy, but it’ll definitely cut down on the gunfire.”

“By then, you’ll rescue me.  We’re assuming they catch me, of course.  Going in with minimal information means they probably will, but I’ll already be inside when you attract their attention.  Sort of a head start when you become the diversion.”

“Ah.  Got it.”

“Worked out how you’re going to get in?” she asked.

“Yep.  Through the roof.  And you?”

“You’re going in through the roof?”

“I’m pretty sure I can get there.  I’m not sure if I can land on it without going through it, but, one way or the other, I’ll definitely get in through the roof.”

“I’m not going to ask.  See how good I am about not asking?  But if you can get
me
to the roof, that would be excellent.”

“Getting to it isn’t the problem.  You’re light, though.  You should land without crashing right through.”

“Still not asking,” she told me.  “It’s tough to not ask, but so am I.  I’ll wait and see.  Now, let’s get into streetwear.”

“I thought we already got dressed for our night out?” I asked.

“Yes, but you can’t drive over like that.  Trust me.  I know this drill.”

“You’re the professional.”

The house was a ten-bedroom, two-storey thing with a lot of roof; I was betting on a lot of attic space.  It also had a four-car garage.  According to my spying, three of the cars were typical electrics, but Tyrone also owned one of those gas-burning hypercars—low, sleek, and looking as though it wanted to eat the road rather than drive over it.  Pity about that.  It was such a beautiful car.

We walked a long way from where the cab dropped us off. Tyrone’s place wasn’t exactly out of town, but it was definitely in a more rural type of suburb.  This gave us ample opportunity to find a secluded spot, change clothes, and cache our mundane outfits.  Mary helped me remove every trace of makeup while we dressed again.

During the remainder of the walk, I kept Firebrand under my cloak; given the misty, drizzly weather, the cloak and hood weren’t too out of place.  Mary wore a disposable rain slicker for outerwear, concealing her cat-burglar attire.  When we reached the gravel road bordering the back of Tyrone’s property, we stopped by the wall and considered.  I didn’t think I could get her to the roof from here, but going around to the nearest side took us along an actual street and ran more risk of witnesses.  Mary decided it was worth the risk.

We casually strolled until we reached the point of closest approach between wall and house.  I fingered an empowered gem in my pocket—I added pockets to my outfit; I like having them—and put a gravity-warping spell on her.  It was of short duration but high intensity; it only had to get her through one major leap.  Or, in this case, one major throw.

I laced my fingers together and she stepped into my hands.  She leaped, I threw, and she sailed into the air like an inhuman cannonball.  I jumped to catch the top of the wall and peeked over.  She was still sailing through the night sky in the weird, almost-slow-motion effect of low gravity.  I snapped tendrils out, grabbing her in flight, and started guiding her; I feared I might have pitched her right past the house.  My gravity-warping spell seemed to be working exceptionally well.

Different universe, different rules for gravity, maybe?  Something to look into.

Between guiding her to the target and, toward the end, lifting to slow her impact, she made it to the roof unnoticed.  She landed in an acrobat tumble, absorbing the impact and dulling the sound, before she lay down on the shingles and waited for any alarms.  I felt her ambivalence through my tendril-touch.  She loved the ride and wanted to never do it again until later.  Interesting.

I dropped down and leaned against the wall to wait, stretching my hearing for any sound of shouting or other alerts.  It was a long wait.  I don’t know how Mary got into the house, but she didn’t set off any alarms.  Then again, it wasn’t that late at night.  Most of the security systems were probably off while people were still roaming around.  She avoided notice for quite a while.

Eventually, I heard the shouting.  My turn to get into position.

I backed off across the street, armed my own gravity-warping spell, and shifted into overdrive.  I flashed across the road, toward the wall, accelerating at unreasonable speeds.  As I started my jump, using the curb and the top of the wall as stepping-stones—to the top of the curb, to the top of the wall!—I activated my gravity-spell, damping out some of the planet’s hold on me.  My leap thrust some bricks out of the top of the wall.  I shot into the air much as Mary did, only with a flatter arc.

Tendrils uncoiled and reached out, seizing the roof, sinking into the physical structure of it, giving me something to hold on to and pull against, drawing me across the intervening space more quickly.  Where Mary nearly cleared the far side of the house, I barely made it to the house at all.  It was tricky, landing on the roof without breaking it.  I spread tendrils all along my landing zone, hoping to reinforce the roof and dampen my impact.  I hit it with my toes, used my legs as shock absorbers, and pretty much went down flat on the thing to spread out the blow.  I was glad the pitch of the roof wasn’t all that steep.

I lay there for over a minute, listening.  It was a hefty thud, but maybe nobody noticed in the excitement of finding a sneak thief in the house.  After a minute or two of listening, it seemed I was unnoticed.  Anyone outside would surely have heard it, but, as Mary suspected, these were grunts in suits, not professional security.  Professionals don’t run to see what the excitement is.  They keep an eye on their assigned sectors while other professionals deal with the problem.  Then again, professional security might also be obliged to report criminal activity on the part of their employer, too.  Trade-offs.

I worked my way to a skylight, felt around inside it with tendrils, unfastened it, and slipped down into the attic.  It wasn’t a finished attic, but it had flooring and piles of stuff in boxes.  It wasn’t regularly used and that was perfect.

With Firebrand, I cut through the rafters, or beams, or whatever those things are that angle up toward the peak of the roof.  Firebrand half-cut, half-burned through the wood, going through it like… well… At any rate, before long, a sizable section of the roof was more sitting on the top of the house than part of it.  That was an excellent start.  We also poked a couple of holes in between for future airflow.

I felt around through the floor, made sure no one was in the room, and cut through the floor/ceiling.  We made a big hole and I dragged the pieces up into the attic to avoid making too much noise.  Once we were down on the second floor, in a home theater room, we cut our way down again, landing in a hallway.  I activated a fireproofing spell on myself, for safety, and got down to serious distraction work.

Whistling cheerily, I walked through the ground floor, letting Firebrand play flamethrower in room after room.  It would set the furniture and carpet on fire while I threw anything handy through a window.  I also ripped the doors off.  We managed three rooms in quick succession before the fire alarms went ballistic.

I started going through walls.  No one was going to notice over the shrill screaming of the alarms, and the walls were usually drywall; frame structures are like that.  Occasionally, there was an electrical conduit or a water pipe.  I made sure to cut water pipes; it lowered the pressure for the sprinkler system.

Trouble, Boss,
Firebrand warned as I strode through a wall.  I turned.  A man stood in the doorway of the sitting room I was leaving.  He had a shooter’s stance, pistol raised.  I knocked the gun aside with a sudden lash of tendrils; they did that braided-coiled-joined-together-tentacle-thing again.  It slapped the gun right out of his hands and I played the jet of fire from Firebrand over him.  Instead of stop-drop-roll, he ran away screaming.