“Bartender!” he shouted. Axel leaned out just far enough to see down the hallway. “What’s in there?” Norden pointed at the locked door.
“Nothing.” Axel started to go back to his station.
“Nothing? It’s locked up like freaking Fort Knox.” He rattled the doorknob again. “Open it.”
“That’s my apartment.” Axel spoke as though everyone knew that. Well, everyone did—everyone who hung out at Creature Comforts, anyway. And the other thing everyone knew was that you never, ever violated Axel’s privacy.
Apparently, Norden didn’t think he was everyone. “I said open it.”
The remaining customers turned to stare as Axel came all the way out from behind the bar. The angle of his head, the tightness of his shoulders broadcast a warning.
“What’re you waiting for,” Norden said, “a warrant? We don’t need one. Not in the Zone.”
“You’re not going through that door.” Axel stood in front of it, his arms crossed. The warning in his posture morphed into a threat. Subtle, but definite.
Norden didn’t do subtle. He stepped back and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. He stood that way for three or four long seconds. Then he gestured to his partner. “Okay, Sykes, break it down.”
Sykes planted himself in front of Axel. It was like watching one of the Rocky Mountains saunter over to the Sierra Nevadas to compare size. They faced each other, tension pouring off them. Everyone watched; Carlos half-rose from his chair. The bar was silent, waiting for the explosion that would come when one of these two made his move.
Then Sykes stepped back and shook his head. “No.”
“No?” Norden’s face invented a whole new shade of purple. “Whaddaya mean, ‘no’?”
“There’s no need. I’ve heard about this place. The bartender’s right: Nobody goes through that door. And that means no illegal vampire activity is happening in there.”
“That door could be hiding anything, damn it!”
“Then
you
break it down.” Sykes moved aside, giving Norden room for a clear run at Axel. The idea of the short, wiry norm shoving Axel out of the way, let alone knocking down the solid door, was ludicrous. Down the bar from me, someone sniggered.
Norden looked ready to pop. If he’d been a cartoon character, he’d have steam shooting out both ears. But he said, “Aw, the hell with it”—loudly, so everyone in the bar could hear—like he’d changed his mind himself.
“C’mon, Sykes. We’re outta here.” Norden stormed through the room. T.J. walked toward the bar carrying a tray of empty glasses. Norden stuck his foot out and tripped the zombie. Glasses flew everywhere, shattering as they hit the ground. T.J. sprawled facedown on the floor.
He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and, from there, reared up into a kneeling position. “Hey,” he said to Norden, looking genuinely puzzled, “what’d you do that for?”
Norden laughed nastily and went outside. Sykes helped T.J. up, gave a “What can I say?” shrug, and followed his partner. He didn’t look at Carlos or his other friends on the way out.
T.J. fetched a broom to sweep up the broken glass. I got down from my stool and retrieved his tray, then picked up a couple of intact glasses and empty bottles. T.J. was pushing the broom near the front door when it opened. Norden came in, his head twisting over his shoulder as he said something to his partner outside.
I don’t think T.J. tripped him on purpose. The kid didn’t seem like the vindictive type, and Norden wasn’t watching where he was going. But somehow the broom got tangled up with Norden’s feet. Norden took three faltering steps and nearly went down. But he caught himself, and when he straightened, his gun was in his hand. Pointed at T.J.
Goons packed the exploding ammo that could take out a zombie.
I’d never seen a zombie go pale, but T.J. did. He dropped the broom and held out his hands, palms out, like they could ward off a bullet. “Sorry, man. It was an accident, all right?”
“You assaulted an officer of the law,” Norden said. “A
human
officer of the law. Do you know what that means?”
Everyone in the bar knew what it meant. Norden could blast a hole the size of the Sumner Tunnel through T.J., with no repercussions. I glanced around the bar. All of the human customers had gone, so no one here counted as a witness. T.J. looked sick with fear.
No one moved.
I put down the tray and stood in front of T.J., getting between him and Norden’s gun. “He said it was an accident, Norden. No harm done.”
Norden could kill me with impunity as easily as he could shoot T.J., but I was hoping he’d find it harder to pull the trigger when the target was unarmed and hadn’t done anything. From the look in Norden’s eyes, I couldn’t count on that. He didn’t lower the gun.
Then, suddenly, Axel loomed between us. I didn’t know he could move that fast, almost as fast as a vampire. A second ago, he’d been behind the bar.
“No guns,” Axel growled, his quiet monotone more menacing than a shout.
I wasn’t going to hide behind Axel, even though there was room for three of me back there. I stepped out and stood beside him.
Norden’s eyes shone with an ugly light. He lifted the gun and pressed it against Axel’s chest, right over his heart. Axel stood stonelike. The gun’s barrel made an indentation in his shirt.
I gauged the distance from where we stood to the front door. Sykes was outside, waiting for his partner. But if I ran out to get him—hell, if I did so much as blink—Norden would squeeze the trigger and blow a hole through Axel. The gleam in his eyes said he’d do it.
I held my breath. I didn’t dare do anything else.
Then Norden laughed. He stepped back, angling the gun away from Axel and toward the floor. My breath came in a rush, and time started again.
“Came back to use the men’s room,” Norden said, reholstering his gun. He walked down the short hallway at the back and stopped in front of the restrooms. He shook his head. “Boos and Ghouls. Jesus.”
5
DAWN WAS AN HOUR AWAY, SO THE LINES AT THE CHECKPOINT into Deadtown were short. I waited only a minute to go through one of the walk-up booths. The guard, a zombie in a tan uniform, had no nose and sported a ragged hole in his right cheek. The Council always chose the scariest-looking zombies for checkpoint duty, probably to keep curious norms off the monsters’ turf. This one took my ID card, swiped it, and glanced at the name. “Thank you, Ms. Vaughn. Have a nice morning.” He smiled as he handed the card back to me, as pleasantly as it’s possible to smile when you’re missing half your face.
I jogged the few blocks home. It was the coldest hour of a cloudless, starlit night, enough degrees below freezing that I didn’t want to think about how many. My breath steamed like a locomotive by the time I pulled open the door to my building.
Clyde was still at the desk, eating a sandwich. He swallowed quickly when he saw the door open, then nodded to me.
“Still on duty?” I asked. “They got you working double shifts now?”
“Only temporarily. The new night man is due to start tomorrow. But I don’t require much sleep, Ms. Vaughn. And the extra hours have been welcome.” He cleared his throat. “My daughter is a freshman at Wellesley.” His expression blended pride with sadness.
Clyde rarely talked about himself, but I knew he was the only member of his family who’d been felled by the zombie plague, and his wife had divorced him soon after. I wondered if he ever saw his daughter—or if his tuition checks were their only contact.
As I said good night, I wished I’d given Clyde a bigger bonus at Christmas. Too late now. I’d make up for it on his birthday.
JULIET WASN’T HOME. ALL WAS QUIET EXCEPT FOR SOME muffled, moving-around noises from the upstairs neighbors. It was getting late for her to be out. I wasn’t worried. At Juliet’s age, she could stand a little weak, early-morning winter sunlight. I just hoped the Goons hadn’t pissed her off so much that she’d found some hapless norm and drained the poor guy dry.
What an image.
I drew the blackout shades throughout the apartment in case the sun rose before Juliet got home, then I went into my room to get ready for bed. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, pulled on some sweats, and—
Oh, no.
I wasn’t wearing my watch. I’d left it on the bar at Creature Comforts.
Damn it, that watch was expensive. In ten years of demon fighting, it was the only one I’d found that worked in dreams. I remembered knocking on the bar when I’d said that to T.J.
My bedside clock read six thirty-four. They might still be cleaning up. I’d call and make sure it was there. Otherwise, I’d worry that someone had scored a free watch at my expense.
I went into the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Creature Comforts,” said a chipper voice. Had to be T.J. Axel wouldn’t sound that bright with a spotlight shining on him.
“Hey, T.J., it’s Vicky Vaughn.”
“Oh, hi, Vicky. Did you want Axel? He’s gone downstairs. He was so mad about that Goon Squad cop, I think he’s demolishing a punching bag or something.”
“No, that’s okay. I just wanted to ask if I left my watch on the bar.”
“Yeah, you did. Axel noticed it after you left. I tried to catch you, but you were already through the checkpoint. We’ll keep it behind the bar until you come back. Or I could bring it to you if you’d rather.”
“Would you? That’d be terrific. I need it for a Drude extermination tomorrow night.” I told him where I lived.
“Oh, sure, I go right by there on my way home. But I won’t be out of here for a while. Those Goons made a mess of the storeroom; it’ll take me an hour, probably, to straighten it up. That okay?”
“I’m about to fall into bed. Can you leave it with my doorman? He’ll hold on to it for me.”
After we hung up, I fell into bed, as predicted. Now I could sleep soundly.
Except sound sleep eluded me. I did sleep, and it started off fine—darkness, silence, no dreams. But a sound emerged, an echo of laughter. It rumbled through my sleep, not a dream but not part of the waking world, either. The sound grew and multiplied; other voices joined in, all of them laughing. The darkness rippled, broke into pieces, and tumbled into billows of thick black smoke that stung my nose and eyes. I smelled burning and squinted against the smoke, trying to make out a half-glimpsed figure passing through it.
This shouldn’t be happening. I struggled to gain control. All Cerddorion are lucid dreamers; we know when we’re dreaming and can consciously direct what’s happening. It’s one of the reasons we’re such skilled demon fighters: Demons often enter victims’ dreamscapes to torment them, so we have to be able to control dreams. But tonight, it was difficult. I focused my attention on dispersing the smoke—I tried a strong wind, then rain. I made the wind stronger, until a hurricane blasted my dreamscape. The smoke didn’t thin. Didn’t budge. It was smoke, but it was a solid, heavy presence, like a hundred-foot-high cliff. The laughter escalated, roaring over the screaming winds.
Then, abruptly, it stopped. The smoke cleared as if it had never been there. The laughter fell away, one voice at a time, until a single whisper remained. The whisper faded, then it was gone. All around me stretched the blackness of undisturbed sleep—and an uneasiness that lingered with the merest whiff of burning.
Gradually, I sank deeper into sleep. My body needed it.
As I reached the deepest part of the sleep cycle, the place of profound relaxation, a hideous figure pushed itself into my dreamscape. Its warty blue skin dripped slime, and it smiled, showing hundreds of teeth, each as big and sharp as a dagger. Flames smoldered behind its eyes, and it belched foul-smelling smoke.
Difethwr, the Destroyer. The Hellion that had killed my father—and nearly killed me.
I screamed and tried to back away, but I couldn’t move. My demon mark, the scar on my arm where the Destroyer’s flames once touched me, burned with searing pain. The face came closer. Its eyes flashed. Flames shot out, streaming toward me.
I struggled but still couldn’t move. I couldn’t even look away as the death-dealing flames, the fire that burned both body and soul, shot toward me.
An inch from my face, they halted. The brightness blinded me, the heat singed my eyelashes, but the flames didn’t touch me.
Difethwr laughed. It was the sound I’d heard before, a chorus of individual voices—loud and whispering, high-pitched and low, screeching and cackling and making me want to block my ears.
As the laughter peaked, Difethwr reeled the flames back into its eye sockets. A huge black bird—a crow, or maybe a raven—flew in and alighted on the Hellion’s shoulder. Something dangled from the crow’s beak. The Destroyer lifted a taloned hand, palm up. The crow dropped the object into it and cawed three times, loudly, the harsh sound joining the demonic laughter. Difethwr clenched its fingers into a fist and then opened its hand again, flipping its wrist so that something dangled from a finger. I blinked the spots from my eyes to see what it was.
My watch hung from the Hellion’s claw.