Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 (19 page)

“True, but all the members had their own individual histories long before that. Their own enemies.”

“Such as?”

He shrugs, settling back in his seat, and crosses his legs. “I’m really not familiar with that aspect. I was brought in to create the comic—to take legends and turn them into myths, essentially. You’d need a historian to track down their exploits—though, from what I understand, they tended to avoid publicity.”

I try another tack. “How about John Dark?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Dark? I thought he was dead. If he isn’t, he’d be a powerful enemy . . . and, yes, fully capable of hunting down and killing every member of the Brigade.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He was the power behind the cult. Wertham was the one who came up with the principle of using comic books as magical foci, but Dark was the leader.”

“So I’ve heard. Why wasn’t he in the comic?”

“I was instructed not to mention him.”

“Because of his involvement with the Hexagon?”

“Yes.”

“How about you? Are you a member, too?”

He frowns. “Let me be perfectly blunt about one thing, Agent Valchek: It was made very, very clear to me when I was brought in on this project, all those years ago, that I was not to talk about—that group. Not then, not ever. So I’m afraid I can’t discuss such a question, even to deny it.”

Hmmm. That’s probably a yes—but a very, very, paranoid one. Maybe even enough to qualify as a no.

“Then let me ask you something else. Are you more than just an artist? Did you help craft the counterspell the
Brigade
comic was created to generate?”

“Of course I did. And just as Wertham used blood from his victims in the ink, I used blood—or in one case, mercury—from the Bravos in the crafting of our spell.”

“How is that different from everyday animism?”

He finishes his coffee and puts the mug down on an end table beside him. “It’s a matter of concentration. You can talk to the spirit of a boulder, even manipulate it to do things a boulder might not normally do, but in the end you’re still dealing with the essence of a large rock. This is about taking that essence and both distilling and amplifying it. The object you concentrate such power in becomes more
itself
than it’s ever been, and does so in realms other than just the physical.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You’ve heard of Excalibur?”

“Sure. Mystic sword, yanked out of a stone by King Arthur.”

“Well, Excalibur is more than just a sword—it’s the ultimate representation of one. It’s the
idea
of a sword, brought to life. As such, it exists as more than just a sharp piece of metal—it exists as a concept, as a piece of history. When we created the
Bravo Brigade
comic, we were crafting something with the power of myth—but it was also a physical object you could hold, like Excalibur. A focus both physical and metaphysical, one that formed a mystic connection between the people who read it and the Brigade.”

I nod. “Cutting-edge stuff, no doubt . . . One final question. What would happen if you used that kind of magic on objects that were already mystically enhanced?”

He frowns. “You could make them more powerful, I suppose. Though there would be an upper limit—

no object can absorb infinite power.”

“I see. Thank you for your time, Mr. Vincent.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” He gets up and shakes my hand. “Perhaps I can be later.”

“I’ll call you if I have further questions.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He meets my eyes and holds on to my hand for a second longer than necessary. “I meant you should contact me in case you require alternate
travel
possibilities.”

He drops my hand and motions to the butler, who’s mysteriously arrived without being summoned.

“Phibes will show you out. Good day, Agent Valchek. And good luck.”

Charlie follows me out the door. He hasn’t said a word since we arrived, and he holds his silence until we’re back in the car.

“Well?” I say.

“Nobody ends an interrogation with a bribe,” Charlie says as he starts the car. “Unless they’re guilty of something.”

We check in on Galahad and discover he’s actually been pretty well behaved. I take him for a quick walk, and he does exactly what a dog is supposed to on a walk—which includes barking madly at pigeons, trying to eat an old candy bar wrapper, and demonstrating a bladder capacity equivalent to a watercooler, emptied a thimbleful at a time. For someone new to the neighborhood, he sure left a lot of messages.

Then it’s in to work, where I square my shoulders and march in to talk to Gretch.

And find out she’s not there.

“She took the day off,” Mahmoud tells me. He’s a pire—I think—though he’s the only one I’ve met who wears glasses. “Don’t know why.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. Guess a pire calling in sick would kind of spill the beans.

The rest of the shift is spent trying to track down Silverado—but he’s vanished, too. He’s dropped off his prisoner, but no one’s heard from him since. I don’t know if that’s just the bounty hunter being careful, or if we have another victim on our hands.

I try calling Gretch. No answer.

I look in on Eisfanger in his lab, hoping he’ll have something for me. He doesn’t. About all he can tell me is that whoever took the armor is a lot stronger than most pires or thropes, which could be the result of either drugs or magic. Wonderful.

I finally give up and call it a day. Charlie drops me off at my apartment and I take Galahad for another quick walk before crawling into bed at around 4:00 PM.

I wake from a deep sleep into a deep groggy. My door buzzer is buzzing in that insistent kind of way that lets me know there’s a teenager who wants to be let in. I stagger to the door, mutter something into the speaker, and let them in. Then I throw on a robe and head for the kitchen to brew some coffee.

To find it’s already been made—by the large, naked man in my kitchen.

“Coffee?” he says, in a voice that sounds more like he isn’t sure it
is
coffee and is requesting confirmation.

“Coffee,” I agree. My brain is refusing to properly process what’s going on, so I pour myself some coffee and try it. It’s strong enough to etch concrete, which is just about right.

“Good
boy
, Galahad,” I say. “My God, I may just have to keep you.”

He grins proudly and waggles his butt.

“But you’re
still
going to have to wear pants.”

He gives me that over-innocent look that dogs do so well, that
What? Huh? I don’t know that word
look.

“Pants,” I say firmly, and he hangs his head and slinks into the living room.

There’s a knock at the door. My brain starts functioning again. I check the peephole and see that it’s Xandra—I vaguely remember her identifying herself, back in the Precaffeinic Era. I let her in. She’s doing her corpsing thing today, half her face rotted away and one eyeball dangling down onto her cheek. Her left hand is completely skeletonized, and she’s wearing a peek-a-boo top that shows off her ribs—literally. Torn jeans and army boots finish off the outfit.

“Hey, Jace,” she says. “Hi, Gally.”

“Xandra! Xandra!”

I shake my head. “You’ve got
him
saying it already?”

“Sure. He was my test case. He’s actually pretty smart.”

“So I’ve discovered. He made coffee.”

She grins—well, the half of her mouth that isn’t already exposed does. “Yeah, Uncle Pete taught him that. He said it was all about teaching him manual dexterity and simple tasks, but I think he had ulterior motives.”

“Have you heard from him?”

She throws herself down on the sofa, and Galahad promptly tries to sit on her lap—at least he’s wearing pants now. She pushes him off good-naturedly. “No. It’s kind of weird, but I guess he could have gone back to visit his old friends or something.”

I frown, and drink more coffee. “His old friends? From where?”

“I don’t know—wherever he came from. We’re not supposed to ask him about it. I think there was some big family tragedy, though; pretty sure he’s an orphan.”

I blink. “Wait. He’s not really your uncle?”

“Sure he is. Oh, you mean by
blood
. I guess not, but he’s a member of our pack—that’s the important thing.”

So Dr. Pete has a past, after all. “How long has he been a member?”

“I don’t know—as long as I can remember. You’d have to ask my parents—but I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You probably don’t know this, but it’s kinda rude to ask about someone’s former pack. You could maybe get away with it because you’re not a thrope, but they probably wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“Ah. Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem.” She gets up from the couch and heads for the kitchen. “How are you fixed for food? I’m
starving
.”

One problem thropes and pires don’t seem to have is an obsession with their weight—maybe because one only drinks blood and the other has a really fast metabolism. In any case, the only thing that consumes more calories than a thrope is a teenage thrope.

“Yuck!” she says, her head in my fridge. “You’ve got all these
vegetables
in here. Some of them I don’t even
recognize
.” She stalks back into the living room, holding something at arm’s length. “I mean, what
is
this?”

“That’s a zucchini. It’s really good in stir-fries.”

She makes a face. “It looks obscene. These things grow in
dirt
, you know.”

I consider telling her about fertilizer and where it comes from, and decide against it. “I know. Look, I’m going to have to go out and get you some supplies, all right?”

“Sure. We can both go, take Gally with us.”

Galahad is looking hard from Xandra to me and back again. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on, but he seems to know it has something to do with a walk.

“You sure? No way I’m putting a leash on him.”

“Don’t worry—he sticks pretty close. And he listens to me.”

I tell her to give me a minute to get dressed. I haven’t had enough sleep, but I’m wide awake—might as well do something useful.

We stroll down to a supermarket a few blocks away, one of those huge glass boxes that sell everything from lawn furniture to children’s shoes. I’m a little nervous about taking Galahad in there, but he behaves himself—only once do I catch him trying to tear open a package of hamburger, and he drops it with an ashamed expression when I bust him.

I let Xandra load up on pretty much whatever she wants—which includes lamb chops, smoked oysters, a two-liter bottle of something carbonated called Beefy Fizz, and prime-rib-flavored potato chips.

We’re in the checkout line when I glance down the nearest aisle and see him.

Dr. Pete.

It’s only a glimpse, but I know it’s him. He’s unshaven, wearing a black peacoat over a black turtleneck and jeans. He ducks out of sight as soon as I spot him.

“Hey!” I say. I sprint down the aisle without thinking. Galahad joins me, doing his best to keep up on only two feet. I reach the end of the aisle and skid to a halt, looking around wildly. No Dr. Pete in sight.

Galahad narrowly avoids slamming into me a second later. He casts about with his head up, breathing heavily through his nose, and I realize he may actually be able to smell Dr. Pete.

“Where is he?” I ask. “Where’s Dr. Pete?”

Galahad sprints for the produce section, me right behind him. There’s a loud crash before we get there, cans hitting the floor and glass breaking. We round a corner and see pineapples and grapefruits all over the floor, amid spilled salad dressing and a variety of canned goods that have been jolted off a shelf.

Standing in the midst of the mess is Tair.

He looks different under the blank glare of fluorescents, but it’s definitely him. There’s a gray stripe down the center of his head I hadn’t noticed before. He looks angry—ears flattened back, fangs bared. There’s no sign of Dr. Pete.

Where is he
? Tair signs.
I know he’s here—I can smell him
.

Galahad stops by my side and makes a sound that’s definitely a growl. “Easy, Gally. Lose something, Tair?”

He’s afraid to face me. Maybe the doctor needs a little incentive
.

The supermarket is relatively deserted, but there’s a few shoppers standing around and gawking at the spectacle; Tair reaches out and casually grabs one, a skinny woman with straggly white hair and a flowered sundress. Before she can do much more than yelp, he’s snapped his jaws around her throat.

In one quick yank, he’s ripped it out.

I’ve seen my share of ugly violence, but there’s usually some warning. The woman flails and tries to scream as blood splashes everywhere. She must be a thrope, but the suddenness of the attack and the loss of blood has her in a state of shock; silver hair begins to sprout on her face and arms as she instinctively tries to transform.

Tair shoves her away and gives me a wolfy smile, his teeth dripping red.

“Galahad,” I say. “Go to Xandra.
Now
.”

He whines, but obeys. I study Tair carefully as the old woman writhes and sputters on the floor.

No Sunshine Man to save you now, bitch. Maybe your precious Dr. Pete will show up to stitch you back
together instead
.

He takes a step toward me, flexing his fingers with their inch-long black claws as he signs. He isn’t moving slowly out of caution—he wants me to scream, to draw Dr. Pete out of hiding.

He obviously doesn’t know me very well.

ELEVEN

I don’t have my gun with me. That’s too bad for Tair.

What I do have is my scythes, tucked into their specially sewn pockets in the lining of my coat on either side. I’ve practiced cross-drawing them and flicking the blades open, and I have more than enough time to do so as Tair approaches.

And stops.

My old sensei Duane Dunn was a big believer in psychological warfare. “Best fight is the one that never happens,” he used to say. “Nothing wrong with running away, but if your opponent can run faster than you, you’re still in trouble. Better to make
him
run.”