Bronze Gods (7 page)

“So we have a lengthy murder on the roof. No conspiracy by the factory owners, no death off-site, and a noisy construction project. You have to admit, this is unusual.”

She sighed. “It’s also impossible. The available time simply
does not
allow for any of it.”

“And yet, these are the facts. Therefore, we’re dreaming, we’re crazy, or the impossible happened. And in my dreams, we’re—” He started over. “So, follow my crazy. If it can’t happen, then there may be . . . magic, involved.”

Magic was rare among the general populace and heavily regulated for obvious reasons, but there was a small minority who resented how power had been stolen from the natives, centuries ago. Like most fringe groups, they had little actual agency, and, generally, they were too poor to afford the licensing fees, so they hid from authorities and worked small glamours in private. This crime, however, felt much bigger to Mikani, far beyond their scope. So he needed help figuring out who could do something like this.

But he had to be careful how he approached it. This angle would get them both pulled off the case so fast, their careers would never recover. They’d be lucky to work directing traffic in the park thereafter; and if the newssheets got wind of it, Mikani could imagine the colorful headline:
MYSTICAL MURDERER USES MAGIC TO INCINERATE HIS VICTIMS!
The magistrates would love that.

“Magic,” she repeated. “Well . . . it exists.”

He looked up, the handkerchief falling from his mouth, and gave her a newly appraising look. “Indeed. This is far past even my level of strange, though. But I know someone who could lend a hand. If she’s willing.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she asked, starting the cruiser.

“Because I’m too wrecked to be my usual, unpredictable, and infuriating self. Now, unless you have some painkillers in your bag, I’d appreciate if we could make an unofficial stop, Ritsuko. I’d normally wait until I got home, but . . .”

“Whatever you need, Mikani.” It was the gentlest thing she’d ever said to him. “Just tell me where to turn.”

•   •   •

A
S THEY DROVE,
Ritsuko noticed few pedestrians, but the noise was constant: shouted conversations and threats, children playing in hidden spaces beyond the patchwork walls. And underlying the noise, the constant thrum and metallic clang of machinery. Gaslights hung in shards, disrepair creeping from the industrial area toward the rest of the city. Tenements had sprung up around the monolithic factories at the center, encroaching on the streets, so Ritsuko needed to focus on her driving to avoid the shanties. The thoroughfare was choked with crates and barrels, but no refuse; the hordes of scroungers wasted nothing, even in Iron Cross. Their finds would be traded in various rag-and-bone shops all over the city.

“You’ll be turning left on Tenth. Then go straight until we get to the Ribbon . . . but are you sure I’m not keeping you? I can get a hansom.” His tone made it clear that he preferred not to drink alone.

What am I doing? A bagful of evidence that needs to be tagged . . .

Even as she thought it, she answered, “I’ll stay, Mikani.”

With a sideways glance, she drove on, negotiating turns at his direction until she reached their destination. When she saw the place, Ritsuko concealed her misgiving as she secured her kit behind the seat, then waited for Mikani to alight.

The building appeared vacant, all the upper windows sealed. Ritsuko took a closer look, however, and saw movement beneath the tightly fitted blinds of the sublevel.
Wouldn’t you know it? Mikani drinks in a dungeon.
External steps carried them down to the entrance, a peeling door that had been painted red at some point. Inside, the pub was a jungle of dim lights, tangy smoke, and pocked tables. As she stepped in, her eyes teared up, and she turned to make sure Mikani was behind her.

Mikani slipped past to signal the bartender, then led Ritsuko toward the far end of the room. He guided her to a ripped leather stool near the back. As Mikani sat, he rested his head against the wall. The relaxation of his pose marked the place as somewhere he felt safe, unlikely as it seemed to her.

“What’ll you have?” the barman asked.

She answered, “Gundarson’s Stout. In the bottle, please.”

He glanced over in surprise, a half smile curving his mouth. “Never would’ve guessed that about you. I’ll have the usual.”

A few moments later, the barkeep delivered her bottle, plus a surprisingly clean glass brimming with dark beer. At a nod from Mikani, he also relinquished a pair of pills before returning to the other side of the counter. Like her partner, she needed something to blunt the memory of a girl reduced to human cinders—and despite its seediness, she saw what brought Mikani here. The place possessed an accepting anonymity.

Whoever you are, whatever your sin, be welcome among us. And drink.
So she lifted her bottle and did so, sighing as the ale went down smooth.

Mikani grimaced as he swallowed his pills.
Bad-tasting medicine that smells like apples.
Oh, bronze gods, he was downing Dreamers.
After taking them, some people went catatonic; others had incredibly vivid visions. One could never predict the results, which was why she disapproved.
CID command wasn’t delighted about its agents being compromised either, as it could wreck a trial. Instinct warred with duty; it was her obligation to report his use of a recreational chemical during work. Exhaling, Ritsuko pretended she didn’t recognize the tablets . . . and chose friendship above regulations.

But she had one concern. “Will those impede your ability to do your job?”

“Less than this headache. Or bleeding all over the reports.”

She remembered one occasion where he’d stared off into space for an hour after a particularly strong response to the pills. But if he said he was up to the mark, she had to believe him. As long as he wasn’t hallucinating, it likely meant they hadn’t hit him hard.

And Mikani self-medicates enough to be licensed as a chemist.

“Fair enough.”

He took a deep breath and a long drink of beer, foam staining his upper lip when he set the glass down. “You did great up there, partner.” He hesitated a moment. “And thanks for keeping them off me.”

“All in a day’s work.” Sighing, she lifted her bottle and gulped half of it. When she set it down, she couldn’t read the expression on Mikani’s face.

He shook his head and cracked a thin smile as he took another drink, gestured at her with the sloshing glass. “You go well beyond duty for me, Ritsuko. I know it. And . . . appreciate it.”

At first, she didn’t know how to respond. He seemed quite serious; for once, the customary levity was absent. The stout was working through her system, making her feel warm, easy, and so it made sense to explain, “People talk about both of us. For different reasons. But I’ll be damned if I ever let them get at you. Not if I can stop it.”

“Same for you, partner. Just ask Shelton and Cutler—” His brows shot up, as if concerned by what he’d almost said, and he took another drink to cover the confusion.

“Ask them what?”

Mikani propped his chin in his hand, tipping his head to the side, his eyes gone dreamy. “They said some things . . . and maybe your name came up, so I had to pound some sense into them. Didn’t want them making trouble for you and Warren.”

“That’s why they had medical leave?” She’d heard, of course, but she didn’t know why. Five weeks ago, Mikani had taken some time off as well, but she hadn’t realized the two events were connected.

“I’m the only one who gets to make trouble for you, Ritsuko.”

“I should probably be mad, but . . . thank you. For caring enough to do that for me.” She smiled at him and finished the Gundarson’s in another long swallow.

He drained his own beer with a deep pull, before saying, “Anything for you, partner. You’re always there when I need you, and that means the world to me.”

Warmth spread from the tips of her toes all the way to the top of her head. With anyone else, at a moment like this, she’d be thinking about the curve of his bottom lip or how his whiskers might prickle if she leaned a little closer. Before she knew it, her hand was moving, brushing against his jaw to find out. He leaned into her touch, smiling faintly as he caught her gaze. His skin was hot, the scruff prickling against her palm, and she slid her hand farther back into his hair, because she knew his head ached after a bad night. She pressed her fingertips to a few key points in slow, soothing circles.

“How’s that? Better?”

His lashes drifted shut as he dipped his head forward. When he opened his eyes, their noses were nearly touching. “Much.”

Her breath caught. She noticed flecks of gray in his dark blue eyes, framed by long lashes. His brows were thick, not that she could ever remember noticing that before, and they had a quizzical arch. And his mouth . . . well, his mouth was right there. She could feel his breath on her lips, and she wondered how he kissed, what that would be like. The warmth became heat, followed swiftly by absolute confusion. Her heart pounded like mad, and a tremor worked up from her knees to her hands. It was all she could do to ease back, hoping the insanity didn’t show in her face.

That . . . what
was
that?

Gundarson’s,
she decided.
And not enough sleep. And . . . we’ve never been unattached at the same time. There was always Warren, or one of his girls . . .

“Barkeep!” she called, praying for a steady tone. “Another round.”

“Just one,” Mikani muttered, looking flushed. “For the road. We still have business at HQ.”

CHAPTER 6

T
HE MORNING AFTER WAS ALWAYS AWKWARD.
T
HANKFULLY,
Mikani had only shared a few drinks with Ritsuko, nothing irrevocable. He was too used to such vices, so his head felt fine. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d suffered a hangover. He quickened his step, anxious to be about his errand.

River Park dominated the center of Dorstaad. It was the spot of the original settlement, over a thousand years before; remnants of the old stone walls dotted the three square miles of lightly wooded land. It was one of the few places in Dorstaad where the sun shone down unimpeded by acrid smoke or the shadow of tall buildings. Mikani swung his walking stick to warn other pedestrians to get out of his way; he considered springing the hidden blade to prod them along, but that might be lack of coffee. His path carried him past the café where Electra worked, and the smell enticed him to stop.

“Mikani,” Electra called. She was busy with other customers, but the smile was just for him. “Keeping out of trouble?”

He grinned. “Almost never.”

“The usual?”

He nodded.

“Coming up.” She studied him, head to toe, and shook her head. “Things have gotten worse, haven’t they?”

It was a good guess, possibly based more on his expression than his alleged aura. But given his own talents, Electra’s power might be real, too. “Unfortunately.”

“Are you sure you won’t let me read your cards? Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t have time today.” Mikani flashed a smile. “But I might be back.”

He drained his cup and returned it to Electra before heading down ash-lined Strand Avenue as it followed the river’s curve. Mikani took his time, as the smell of running water and growing things eased the churning of his mind. He mulled the case with the possible complication of magic, this errand in search of help, and the recent awkwardness with Ritsuko. Though two drinks was nothing to him, his partner had seemed to feel the effects long after the pills and the liquor wore off for Mikani.

After the odd moment at the bar, they hadn’t talked much, going over interviews and statements, filing and storing what they had so far. Anatole must have sensed something amiss: he’d stayed well away from the duty room. Mundane tasks had blurred into one long stretch of tedium; by midnight, things returned to normal, with a tacit agreement to concentrate on the case—and at that point, they were exhausted. They’d headed out to get some sleep.

Though not much. Not with the Council bearing down. It won’t be long before we do something stupid if we don’t get some real rest.

How long’s it been?
Sometimes, he kept in touch with women who left him, but most often, they preferred a clean break. It was rare that he found himself needing to ask a favor from a former lover, but with the pressure from above, he reckoned he had to use all the resources at his command.

Saskia wouldn’t be amused to be described as an asset.

He hurried the last few blocks to an unassuming, brightly painted building crammed between two far-more-imposing structures. A stylized, human-headed-owl sign proclaimed it to be the main offices of Siren Trading. He rapped on the frame sharply with his walking stick.

A woman opened the door. Nearly Mikani’s height, she was light where he was dark: braided blond hair to the waist, dressed in a flowing cream dress cut to classical lines. Pale green eyes met his, and she smiled.

“Janus.” He could not help the smile back: she’d always had that effect on him. Her gaze slid over his shoulder, and back. “You’re not here to arrest me, then.”

Oh, hells and Winter, she remembers.

“Not this time, Saskia.”

“You usually keep your promises. I’m disappointed.” She turned back toward the building, and he followed, closing the door behind him. All around them, clerks and secretaries waved papers, filed documents, and carried on in an intense hubbub that she ignored as she led him to her office upstairs. Her bare feet made no sound on the worn wood: she’d grown up on her family’s ship and claimed shoes were only good for slipping on wet timbers.

He slouched in an old, overstuffed chair while she walked around the carved oak desk, folding herself into the chair to look at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry to drop in like this. I need your help—”

“I’m well, thanks for asking, Janus. It has, indeed, been a long time. Two years? The concern’s prospering, as you can see.”

He ran a hand through his hair, abashed. “My apologies. I trust you—”

She interrupted him by tossing a crumpled piece of paper at his head. “Stop being horrid.” She let out a long sigh as she leaned closer, over her desk. “It really is good to see you, you know.”

“And I truly am sorry it’s been so long.” He offered a conciliatory smile, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ll do my best to make it up to you. But first, I need your help.”

She frowned, studying him for a long moment. He returned her silent gaze.
Come, Saskia, you know I wouldn’t have come to you if I had another choice. Not like this.
The silence stretched for a full minute before she leaned back, letting out a long, soft breath. “I sense that you’re going to ask a . . . complicated favor.” She poured two glasses of whiskey, sliding one toward him.

“It could result in official disapproval, should my superiors find out.” She made a soft, amused sound. They both were well aware of her disdain for authority—House or Council. He sipped, watching her as the burn spread down his tongue and throat. “And it will involve a trip to Iron Cross.”

Her eyes narrowed; local factory owners, who preferred to keep suppliers under their thumbs, saw her and the other Free Traders as a necessary evil. Over the years, she had struggled to build up her business, and she wouldn’t look kindly on any endeavor that could threaten her life’s work. Even if it came with the appealing prospect of putting him in her debt.

“Tell me the rest.”

“It also means using your gifts.” He turned away when the liquid in her glass spattered as she slammed it on the desk.

Saskia glared. Her fists were white-knuckled on the desktop, all color drained from her face. Her bottom lip trembled, as she finally whispered, “Janus Mikani, how dare you ask me that, after what happened?”

He stood and leaned on his walking stick, blue eyes steady. “Only you can help me. I trust you and . . . and I need you. We’re trying to catch a killer.” He held a hand up as she tried to dismiss his argument. “This monster killed a girl, who hadn’t done a damned thing wrong. Help me.”

“You . . . you’re a selfish, arrogant . . . idiot. Why me?” She sounded as weary as he felt.

“Because this has the smell of sorcery, Saskia. It reeks of it, and I need you to tell me that I’m crazy for thinking it.”

“Oh, Janus. You’re all kinds of crazy, but your instincts are usually sound.” She finished her glass in a long gulp. “But I still don’t see why I should help you.”

“Old times aren’t compelling enough?”

She gave him a look. “You know me better than that.”

“What do you need, then?” Mikani didn’t have the kind of money that would tempt Saskia into helping out. He waited for her reply, wondering how bad it would be.

“I could use a hand with some craggers.”

“Bastards,” he muttered.

Though he didn’t deal with their ilk, they were a nasty, solitary lot who prowled the bluffs of the Winter Isle. They must be hitting Saskia’s ships. How
he
could help, Mikani had no idea, but it wasn’t as if he could turn away her aid should he secure it.

“I’ll give you the details later. Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“Then put some shoes on, grab a shawl, milady. Let me offer you an excursion to Iron Cross.” He offered his arm.

“Fool,” she muttered as she stepped around the desk. “You always took me to the worst places.”

•   •   •

M
IKANI LIT A
cigarillo. He drew deeply, savoring the burn. He wasn’t used to inactivity, but Saskia had been adamant that he stay out of the way. So it required all his self-control to keep from pacing, peering over her shoulder, and generally making a nuisance of himself.

The ward constables waited downstairs, keeping the scene clear for him and his consultant. At some point, they’d covered the device with a tarp, but otherwise, it remained undisturbed so far; a team from Headquarters was due to disassemble, study, and catalog it, but they were waiting for approval. Once it came, Mikani suspected the whole thing would be sold off as scrap metal before the week’s end.

Saskia walked a circle around the machine, her eyes half-closed as she whispered a soft incantation. Her right hand drew graceful patterns in the air; she carried intricate henna traceries all over her forearm, which shimmered and shifted when she flexed her fingers. Every few steps she paused and jingled the bells of the charm bracelet on her left wrist. They had been at it for an hour; dusk was fast approaching.

Mikani watched her through the curls of smoke, frowning.
I shouldn’t have dragged her into this. I can still taste Cira’s death; gods know what she’s getting from that thing while actively digging around.

“Janus.” Her voice was tight; she stood very still, looking down at her feet. He tossed the cigarillo and stepped closer. “No, don’t.” She licked her lips, and he tensed. “Tell me . . . what do you feel?”

He hesitated, then closed his eyes and stopped trying to block the echoes all around him. Even from ten feet away, he could sense that something had changed. “There’s something . . . pushing me away. No, I feel like I shouldn’t be here. It’s . . . subtle.”

“It was present when she . . . when he killed her. The effect would have kept everyone away.” She canted her head and slowly stretched her arm toward the device once more before pulling it away quickly.

“Saskia.” When she’d lifted her arm, he had felt a sudden chill. He took a step closer before she shook her head and warned him off with a look.

“No, I’m well enough. I guess you felt that, too.” She retraced her steps carefully. “This machine feels as if there’s a . . . hole. It’s a deep, cold pit, as if something grabbed a piece of the world and yanked it out. It’s frightening.” She completed the circle and stepped away from the machine, rubbing her arms.

He draped the shawl over her and took her hands: she was deathly cold. “It’s magic, then.”

“It’s twisted and wrong, Janus. Be careful. Whoever did this is dangerous and probably mad.” She glanced over her shoulder. “No sane person
would
.”

“I owe you, Saskia. I’m sorry I put you through this.” He squeezed her fingers.

She nodded. “You do. And I’ll collect, soon. You can start by getting me away from here, though.”

Their lives had just gotten much more complicated.

•   •   •

R
ITSUKO DIDN’T REQUISITION
a car since she was working on her own this morning; splitting up meant they could cover more ground, investigate leads more efficiently, and the tube took her where she needed to be. Her head throbbed faintly, a combination of a light hangover and lack of sleep. She envied how her partner could shake off the aftereffects, but she wasn’t used to drinking.

Hurrying along the sideway, she made mental notes as she went.
I need to question all the professors in both mathematics and engineering. They might shed some light on the design of the murder machine.

A well-kept redbrick building occupied the corner of Academe and Sixth Street, where she crossed. Someone had planted flowers in the window boxes; the fragrance was profuse, permeating the whole block. Ahead lay the quad, an open green where the students lazed around in the sun. Some young men had a ball they were kicking around, while girls in pretty frocks cheered them on. She skirted well away from the game, heading for the registrar’s office.

Inside, there was a couple arguing and a bored woman behind a desk, dealing with a queue of students. Ritsuko flashed her badge, and said, “I’m looking for the dean.”

“His office is in the next building.” The clerk gave directions, looking both nervous and intrigued.

She imagined it wouldn’t be long before the woman found an excuse to tell a colleague that the CID had arrived. Her heels clicked briskly against the pavement as she hurried from the building and into the next, a gracious structure with creamy white columns out front. Within, the first floor was divided into offices, with the dean residing in the last and largest one. In the antechamber, a comely redhead was shuffling some papers, doing her best to look as if she hadn’t been hired for her features.

She smiled as Ritsuko approached. “May I help you?”

“I need to speak with the dean, please.” Again, she showed her credentials.

“Oh. Right away.” The girl hurried to warn her boss, but Ritsuko followed too closely to allow any private conversation.

“Sir, I need your cooperation.” Pointedly, she stared at the assistant until she returned to her desk, then Ritsuko stepped into the office and closed the door.

The dean was an elderly gentleman with a crop of close-cut white hair. He was thin and stooped in the way of men who had spent long years hunched over a desk. Lines on his face said he had little Ferisher blood, or that he was incredibly old, but his gray eyes seemed sharp beneath the wild caterpillars of his brows.