Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets

Lieutenant Arkham. Elves and Bullets

Alessio Lanterna

Acheron Books n.3

Editorial Director: Adriano Barone

English editing by Max Booth III

Translation from Italian by Kate Mitchell

Cover by Antonio De Luca

Ebook Publishing by Matteo Poropat

ISBN epub: 9788899216108

ISBN mobi: 9788899216122

Copyright © 2014 Acheron Books

All rights reserved

Acheron Books –
www.acheronbooks.com

Alessio Lanterna

I bang the boot of the car shut and light myself a cigarette. The smoke drifts away into the oily night of Nectropis. Thick, rank, sticky city air, it snakes into your lungs every single fucking
day
, if there’s any point in using that term to describe a period of twenty-four hours during which the sun barely glimmers for little more than the length of a decent fuck.

I take a deep breath of poison. After all, when you find two idiots and a cop, dead in a nicked aviomobile and twenty kilos of special stout in the boot, worrying about the long-term oncological risks is just about on the same level as wondering what excuse to make to the surgeon who’s going to have to stitch your backside back together while you’re about to be raped by an entire male basketball team.

Not even forty yet, it’s not like I can say that I’m close to retirement, or anything. No wife, no children, a mother who hits the bottle so much she doesn’t even realise who or what crosses the threshold of her own home. And the Brunette would have let someone else bang her. Fact. Shit, it all sounds a bit pathetic put like that. But, at the end of the day, I nearly screwed over one of the biggest bigshots in Nectropis, along with his entire family of tie-wearing arseholes. Not bad as a finale. Pity no one would have lived to tell the tale.

The cigarette butt flies straight into a puddle. A short hiss. At this point there’s no use asking myself If I’m sure I want to do it. Even if I wanted to ask myself this moronic question, my three dead friends would quickly remind me there’s no going back.

Either me, or that immortal bastard with rabbit ears and the rest of the gang in one go. I’d give myself odds of sixty to one. If I weren’t the bookie, obviously. After my last cigarette, the only thing left to do is knock back the last dregs of whiskey, rake my hand through my hair, sit in the car and think, soaring towards one of the highest spires in the city, about how the hell it came to this.

It’s raining. What a surprise. On the pavement in front of the ramp there’s a gathering of lower-class hookers, they’re taking full advantage of the sluggish traffic and putting their goods on display in the sodium yellow from the few street lights that still work. They cross the traffic lanes and try to pick up drivers, oblivious to the rain. The Seventh Level, to hell with it, nothing but a revolting cesspool. A small greenish figure wrapped up in filthy rags leaps onto the bonnet brandishing a windscreen wiper which is far dirtier than any vaguely transparent windscreen. One horizontal pointy ear and half an ear like a cone, heading north like an antenna abortion.

Fucking gremlins. Only such a parasite would be dumb enough to try and clean car windscreens in the pouring rain after washing fourteen other levels. According to scientists, it’s living proof of a demonic invasion that took place about a thousand years ago. Common mortals call it the “Failed Apocalypse”. Their genetic code is totally different to that of any other life form on the planet. As far as I’m concerned, they’re no better than rats—in fact, they churn out sprogs at about the same rate; about the Apocalypse, the Seventh Level seriously questions the theory that it failed. Without even so much as glancing down.

Motioning to the filth to get the hell off my car is utterly in vain. Worse, it starts dirtying up the windscreen with that shit-spreader in its hand. It’s gone too far. Suddenly I swerve onto the hard shoulder, the local streetwalkers are thrown into a panic, prancing away and cursing in my general direction, the gremlin hits the windscreen. So I slam on the brakes. The rag bag rolls a few metres, but it’s not dead, dammit. It gets up and hauls itself away, melting into the infinite number of cracks in the city. I’d mow it down but I wouldn’t want to damage the car.

A siren, it’s directed at me. The metropolitan police is incredibly efficient when it’s totally pointless. They pull up behind my car and one of the two officers approaches. Unbe-fucking-lievable, the town council is broke again and patrol cars station themselves near the ramps so they can slap a fine on anyone who jumps the queue.

A knock on the windscreen.

“Sir, this lane is reserved for emergency vehicles...”

I press my ID badge against the window, right in front of his nose.

“Oh...I’m sorry...”—a gulp—“Lieutenant, sir.”

He races off to his car like he’s just seen Satan and, before I can even switch the ignition on, he’s vanished. The effect a Federal Guard badge has on cops is just amazing. I used to be a cop, when I was young, I remember it clearly: ‘Whatever it is you see, if the Guard is there, just flee’.

Everything is easier in the emergency lane. All you have to do is give the hookers time to get out of the way. I should have got into this lane straightaway, even though I’m not on duty.

It takes me just ten minutes to get to the address I was given. A grimy alley in front of Godur restaurant. A small huddle of curious onlookers practically crowding on top of each other tells me this is the right place. I double park, on double yellow lines.

“Out of the fucking way, lowlife,” I say to a half-ogre. He’s got a face that would make even a boss-eyed sow throw up and he’s blocking my way. He turns round, with a menacing air, but cools down pretty damn quick when he sees my badge. dropping his fists, he moves off. This scene is repeated a few more times, with variations on the theme, until I reach the police cordon. Luckily it’s a narrow, dead end street, otherwise the two officers would have had problems holding back the rabble. I just vaguely wave my badge around to get past.

A third guy in a dark raincoat, about twenty-five, moves away from the body and comes towards me.

“Hello. Excuse me, but who—“

“What have we got here?” I cut him off, without even looking at him. My complete attention is on the corpse, and I start to go towards it. The young kid stands in front, blocking the way. He must be new. I can smell the fear coming off the two guards without even sniffing the air, which, incidentally, reeks of the sickly stink of Godur takeaways.

“I asked who you are. This area is—“

“Lieutenant Arkham, Federal Guard, organised crime department. I asked you what we have here.”

In the end, I bestow one of my tried-and-tested harsh stares on him. It hits the mark, they always do. However, this kid is not your average sprog and he takes it on the chin, though with the slightest of squirms. He’s good-looking, as far as I can tell, not that I’m an expert on fellas, deep blue eyes and a lady-killer goatee, neatly-trimmed. Bet the ladies in his neighbourhood adore him.

“Elf, apparent age—“

“Elf?”

“Yep.”

Instinctively, I glance around. A filthy alley in the Seventh. Holy crap, what’s an elf doing here? I get closer and lean over her. She’s very slight, delicate embroidered silk clothes, probably masterpieces by some giant spider who inadvertently became a star of haute couture. Girlish breasts, manicured nails.

“Don’t touch! We’re waiting for forensics!”

“Good luck. Have you brought a tent?”

“But—“

“How long have you been on the force?”

“Eight months.”

“A premature birth.”

Naturally her face is breathtakingly beautiful. I think an elf’s pointy ears are just ludicrous in principle—that’s where the nicknames ‘asses’ and ‘rabbits’ come from—but the overall effect is stunning. Her green, slanting eyes are staring wide. Copper-coloured hair, even though some silver strands interrupt the harmony. Her lips are parted in sheer terror. The top of her skull is smashed in. Her curls, bone and grey matter are all fatally mashed up together. Leaving this detail aside and after a quick warm-through in the microwave, this corpse would make even the most God-fearing of men discover the joys of necrophilia.

“Apparent age, eight hundred,” I continue.

“Eight hundred? Are you sure? I would have estimated—“

“I couldn’t care less. I definitely know more about Elves than you do, boy. Trust me.”

“I do have a
name
, Lieutenant.”

“Oh really.”

“
Inspector
Nohl Cohl.”

“Excellent, boy. Say it out loud now and then, so you don’t forget it.”

I close my eyes and breathe in, concentrating.

“Lieutenant?”

“Shut
up
.”

A smattering of words, in an ancient language, murmured. A Na gesture. I open my eyes again and look beyond the thin shroud which separates the land of the living from the torment of spectres. Shadows from beyond the grave seem to chase each other, snapping at heels, until they become aware of me. They freeze, possibly surprised, maybe annoyed. They close in on me, the intruder against the universal object of vendetta. My survival instinct sets off all the innate alarm bells in every single fibre of my being, trying to persuade me to get the hell out. I don’t belong here. For a second I catch sight of a humanoid outline, curled up like a foetus, wailing, desperately wailing—but it’s just a vague silhouette, a ghost which has been searching for peace for so long that it is almost indiscernible from the shadows. A second Na gesture brings the spell to a close—blinking rapidly, I find myself once again in the filth-ridden alley in the land of the living. Despite everything, its much more preferable to its parallel beyond the grave. Need a scotch.

“Was that...magic?”

I take a moment or so to catch my breath.

“She didn’t die here.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Did you find spatters of blood? Globs of brain stuck to the walls?”

“It’s pouring down!”

“Not over there it isn’t,” I reply, pointing to an area of wall covered by a ledge a bit higher up, right behind the corpse. “If a blow to the head had cracked her skull open here, there would be clear signs.” Nohl comes closer, while I remain crouched, repeating to myself that it’s
just
the usual beyond-the-grave stuff, that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that I’ve already seen it a hundred times before—rummaging around in my pocket, in search of a cigarette. It’s finished, I repeat to myself, lighting up with trembling fingers.

“There’s nothing there,” says Nohl, doubtfully. Then adds, as if making excuses, “Anyway, this is a job for forensics.”

Dickhead kid.

“Have you already talked to the people at Godur?”

“No, I was waiting for forensics and crime scene back-up.”

Even though I’ve still got the shakes, the kid still manages to make me laugh.

“With you around, delinquents can work until they die of natural causes,” I say, while my words are drowned out by the rain which is coming down harder.

“What?”

“
Go to the takeaway!”
I yell at him, adding an exasperated “fuck” under my breath. “I’ll join you in a second.”

Cohl patently disapproves of my working style, but he’s got no choice but to set off muttering some half-baked curse under his breath. I finish my smoke sheltered by the building and stare at the corpse while trying to block the trembling.

Five minutes later I go into the ogre restaurant, trying not to vomit at the appalling stench. Cohl treats me to some more laughs, standing at the counter, he’s trying to talk to the cook, half-blood human-swine, while holding a handkerchief under his nose, and pathetically miming the location of the alley with his free hand.

“D-i-d y-o-u s-e-e…see, understand? With your eyes…” - he says, pointing at his eyes.

The half-ogre shakes her head to say she doesn’t understand. If I weren’t gripped by nausea, I would stay to enjoy the show. Moving amongst the keen gazes of the patrons, I recognise some of them from the crowd of vultures around the body. The murder was probably good for business. I get to the counter and Cohl turns to face me.

“It’s hopeless, she doesn’t understand a word. Maybe one of the customers can translate…”

Turning towards the cook, I show her my badge. “Show me your permit, otherwise I’ll close this sewer down.”

Oddly, she gets the message instantly, and after a quick trip into the back, she returns, triumphantly waving the permit in the air.

Shit, it’s above board. Plan B.

I take the permit, approach the patrons and, unleashing my rudimentary Ogrese, I inform them that the takeaway will be temporarily closed for a health inspection, and invite them to make their way to the exit. The cook starts banging on about having a legal permit, this only meets with my utter indifference and the Inspector’s thinly-disguised confusion. A quick squint at the permit tells me what the half-sow’s name is, Mari Eggu—human first name, an ogre’s surname.