Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) (4 page)

The falcon glanced at the clock. “Shoot, I missed Munchies. They close an hour before dawn.”

“They might be open today. Half of Deadtown’s zombies are milling around out there.” And when zombies mill, they get hungry.

“I noticed that when I flew into town. What’s going on?”

I filled him in. “Daniel, he’s a homicide detective, thinks the Morfran is somehow involved. From what I saw at the scene, I suspect he’s right. But from witness accounts, it doesn’t sound like a straightforward Morfran attack. So I’m going to interview the witnesses tonight. Maybe that will help us understand what happened.”

His falcon eyes bright, Dad nodded. “You should take another look at the book, Vic. New Morfran activity might be an omen.”

“You’re right.” A wave of weariness washed over me, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed. “I will. But later.” I needed to sleep. If I even glanced at the book right now, while I was tired and weak, it would attack. Once my mind was clear, I’d try again.

Dad left, hoping to scrounge a cheeseburger or two, and I got ready for bed. I thought about contacting Mab at her home in Wales to tell her about the zombie attack and its possible Morfran connection. She’d want to know. But I decided to wait. It would make more sense to talk to the witnesses first. That way, I’d have a better idea of what we were dealing with.

Right now, the only thing I knew for sure was this: Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

I WOKE UP AROUND FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON, AFTER A long sleep blessedly free of dreams. No zombies rioting in the Zone. No visions of Boston burning. No flashbacks to the sheet-covered bodies or stinking black slime of Daniel’s crime scene. Those images decided to wait until I opened my eyes, when they all came rushing back, reminding me of the problems crowding around and clamoring for my attention.

Rolling over and clamping a pillow on top of my head wouldn’t do anything to make them go away. I know. I tried.

That left one option: facing them. By the time I’d hit the shower, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and downed two mugs of black coffee, I felt almost ready to do just that.

I still had some time before I went to meet Daniel at the Tremont Street checkpoint, so I thought about which weapons to take on tonight’s expedition. I wasn’t going demon-hunting, so I didn’t need my usual assorting of daggers, a sword or two, and bullets, all in demon-busting bronze. Still, it would be dark soon, the time when demons are free to enter in the human plane, and you never know when one might materialize in your face, waving its claws and spewing its sulfur-and-brimstone halitosis. I’d bring along a bronze-bladed dagger or two, just in case. A pistol and a couple of magazines of bronze bullets couldn’t hurt either.

But one weapon was a must-have for tonight: Hellforged, an obsidian dagger that, true to its name, had been fashioned by demons in the depths of Hell. Centuries ago, the Cerddorion had stolen it from a Hellion, and it was the only tool we had to control the Morfran.

Hellforged rested in my hand, its polished black blade gleaming. The first time I ever touched this dagger, it leapt away from me like a skittish colt. Hellforged had a mind of its own, and my early attempts to use it were clumsy. But we’d learned how to work together. Now, a quiet vibration thrummed through the dagger as I held it, but it didn’t twitch or jump. I slid it into its ankle holster, hoping there would be no need to use it tonight.

Hellforged could call and hold the Morfran, but only slate could imprison the spirit. For that, I had a specially made slate plaque, commissioned by Mab from a local witch in Wales. The plaque looked like something your grandmother would hang in her gingham-curtained kitchen. Surrounded by a painted border of curlicues were the words
HOME SWEET HOME
. The curlicues were magically charged symbols that strengthened the slate and increased its capacity to hold the Morfran.
HOME SWEET HOME
had no magical significance; it was my aunt’s idea of a joke.

Okay, so Mab doesn’t have the world’s sharpest sense of humor. She’s still a formidable demon fighter.

I tucked the slate into my jacket’s inner pocket. After checking again to make sure my weapons were secure, I went to meet Daniel.

THE SCENE IN DEADTOWN HADN’T CHANGED MUCH SINCE this morning. All the zombies who’d usually be working the night shift were restricted to DA-1, thanks to the Code Red, and every single one of them seemed to be out on the streets. The mood was tense, the air buzzing with that electric feeling that happens right before lightning strikes.

I kept my gaze on the pavement in front of me, though I could feel heads turn to track my path. I ignored occasional pushes, choosing to interpret them as harmless jostling on a crowded sidewalk, despite flares from my demon mark that urged me to turn and punch whoever had shoved me.

Then someone stopped in front of me, deliberately blocking my path.
Uh-oh,
I thought, raising my eyes,
here it comes
. My demon mark goaded me to reach for a weapon. I balled my hand into a fist, but kept my arm at my side.

“Hi, Vicky. Jeez, how loud do I have to shout your name? I called you, like, three times, and then I still had to stop right in front of you to get your attention.”

“Tina.” My fist unclenched. Standing in front of me was the teenage zombie who’d briefly been my apprentice before a new shiny object had come along to distract her from demon slaying. Lately, though, she’d been trying to get back in my good graces, even studying demonology on her own time. I was glad I hadn’t gone for a weapon. Tina could be annoying, but she was basically a good kid.

Tonight she wore purple skinny jeans and a tight T-shirt bearing the slogan
CODE RED? KILL IT DEAD!
spelled out in rhinestones. It looked like Tina had found yet another new shiny object. Literally.

“Nice shirt. Is it a political statement or a fashion statement?”

“Both, of course. Duh. Plus an artistic statement, too. I made it, and I’m selling zillions of them out of my Etsy store. Mostly to norms, if you can believe that.” Her gray-green face creased in a scowl. “Although I can’t tell whether they want to stand in solidarity with us in Deadtown or just, you know, look cool.” Her expression brightened. “Hey, you want one? I’ll let you have it for fiftee—uh, ten percent off.”

“I don’t think I’m cool enough to wear that.”

Tina tilted her head as she appraised my outfit. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway, here.” She thrust a piece of paper at my face.

“What’s this?” I took the flyer and held it where I could read the thing without going cross-eyed.

“A unity rally. Your boyfriend is organizing it. He’s all about, like, nonviolence and coming together and not splitting into factions and stuff. It’ll be awesome.”

I studied the flyer. Tina was right—the rally was meant to inspire Deadtown residents to work together for equality. I’d figured Kane would be doing something like this, but it felt weird to hear about it from Tina. He would’ve told me about it if we’d managed to have a conversation since Code Red was imposed; I knew that. But with all our problems, conversation was exactly what I’d been avoiding.
Hell, say it, Vicky
—what I’d been fearing. My heartbeat sped up, and all I wanted was to see Kane’s face, to feel him in my arms. The zombie witness interviews could wait. My need to find Kane, to push away all the terrible things that had come between us, was bigger and more urgent than any homicide case.

“Do you know where—?” I started to ask.

Tina snatched the flyer from my hand. “Hey, you didn’t say anything about this part. Didn’t you see it?” Her sparkly pink fingernail pointed at a name in the list of speakers. Tina Terror—the stage name she’d chosen back when she aspired to become a zombie pop star. “Kane invited my school to send a speaker. You know, to give the paranormal youth perspective. My whole school voted, and they picked me! It would’ve been unanimous except some of the sophomores thought it’d be funny to write in Jenna because she’s, like, so shy and there’s no way she’d get up on a stage. Anyway, I won. There I am, on the list right there. It’s okay to use Tina Terror, don’t you think? I mean, even though I gave up singing it’s still got name recognition. Like, people would look at the flyer and be like, ‘Tina Zawadzki—who’s that?’ But if they see Tina Terror, they might go, ‘Oh, yeah. That singer chick. I remember her.’ Know what I mean?”

Somewhere in Tina’s flood of words, my plan to drop everything and find Kane got washed away. It would be silly to go rushing through Deadtown, trying to find him so he could sweep me up into his arms and tell me everything was all right. This wasn’t some stupid movie, and everything wasn’t all right. Everything was a million miles from all right.

I watched the zombies filling the streets of Deadtown. Tina, still chattering about the rally. A woman in a nice suit, her shiny brown hair carefully cut to frame her monstrous face, who’d clearly once been some kind of professional. A group of men in Red Sox jerseys, gathered around a radio listening to the game. A young couple holding hands. Kane could hold rallies to bring them together—he was good at that sort of thing—but who was going to save them from a demonic spirit that saw them as nothing but food?

That would be my department.

I told Tina I had to go, but I promised to be at the rally. Then, still aching for Kane, I walked away from Deadtown.

THERE WAS TROUBLE AT THE CHECKPOINT INTO HUMAN-CONTROLLED BOSTON. The norm guard wouldn’t let me bring my weapons through.

Daniel, who’d been watching for me, came over as we were arguing.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, showing his detective shield. “She has clearance. I checked the database this afternoon—she’s on the list.”

“
She
is.” The guard’s jaw was set so hard it was amazing he could get any words out. “But her weapons aren’t.”

Daniel’s glance went to me, and I folded my arms. “Tools of the trade. I need them.”

“Three concealed daggers, plus one concealed handgun with extra ammunition,” the guard continued, as though I hadn’t spoken. “And if you look at the list, nothing by her name clears her for bringing a weapon into Boston.” He motioned to Daniel, who stepped up beside him in the booth. The guard turned his back to me, blocking my view of the screen. “See? Nothing about weapons. I can’t allow her to bring those through.”

Daniel argued. He threatened. He made phone calls. He cajoled. But the police didn’t have any direct authority over border security, and the guard remained unmoved. “Either she hands over those weapons, or she stays in DA-1.”

“Okay, look,” I said. “I won’t take the bronze daggers or the gun. But this dagger”—I showed him Hellforged—“isn’t a weapon. It’s a ritual tool, an athame. Go ahead and look at it. The blade is dull. You couldn’t slice a tomato with it, let alone hurt a norm.”

The guard ran his thumb along the blade. When no blood appeared, he shrugged. Maybe he got my point, or maybe he was tired of arguing and wanted to get back to watching videos on his smart phone. But he said, “Okay.”

I hated handing over my other weapons. Daniel made sure I got a receipt for them. I suspected that wouldn’t mean much, but there wasn’t time for me to run home and lock them in their cabinet. We’d wasted too much time already.

Daniel led the way to a double-parked black panel truck. When I reached for the front passenger door, he shook his head. “We ride in the back.” He opened the rear door and gestured for me to climb in.

I stopped and peered inside. The interior looked comfortable enough, with several rows of plush seats and a video screen at the front. But there were no windows. Not along the sides, not in the wall that divided us from the driver’s compartment, not in the back doors that Daniel now held, waiting for me to enter.

“Good thing I’m not claustrophobic,” I said. Well, not
very
claustrophobic. “Um, do the lights stay on after you close the doors?”

Someone in a front seat twisted around to face us. Foster. I hadn’t noticed the dome light gleaming off his bald head. “Don’t tell me a creature of the night is afraid of the goddamned dark.”

Daniel ignored his partner’s remark. “Yes, the interior is fully lit,” he said to me. “But we’re required to travel this way—even Foster and me. The detention center is in a secret location. Only a few people, at the very highest levels of security clearance, know where it is.”

“And we’ll never make it there if you don’t get in,” Foster griped. “Not that I’d care if we left you behind. I still think it’s a lousy idea, hiring one of your kind.”

At that, I climbed into the van. “And what kind would that be, Foster? Shapeshifter? Woman? Or the kind who could save your ass in a demon attack?” Foster’s mouth dropped open, but no words emerged. “Now that I look at it that way, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should stay home and leave you dangling out there as demon bait.” If the only thing I accomplished tonight was annoying this bigoted detective, it’d be a good night’s work.

Daniel grinned like he was thinking the exact same thing as he climbed in behind me. As soon as the door shut, Foster picked up a phone and spoke to the driver, who peeled away fast. I lurched sideways into a seat, and Daniel grabbed the seat beside it. Foster smirked at us, then turned to face the front.

Jerk,
I thought, buckling myself in. Wherever we were going, and whatever happened there, it was going to be one hell of a long night.

I WAS RIGHT ABOUT IT BEING A LONG NIGHT. BY THE TIME we reached our destination, I’d already suffered through what felt like several lifetimes of Detective Foster’s charming company. First, we pulled over in a deserted underground garage somewhere so the driver could frisk me. I thought I was going to get a hard time about Hellforged again, but he wasn’t looking for weapons. He was checking for a cell phone or other GPS device that could transmit information about our location. Daniel got the same treatment because he’d left the “secure area”—I assumed that meant the back of the van—at the checkpoint. Foster stayed inside, radiating his pleasure at our humiliation.

Once we got underway again, Foster’s presence stifled any attempts at conversation. Every possible topic seemed off the table. We couldn’t talk about our personal lives, because Foster’s ears would be wide open for any mention of Kane, and Daniel’s girlfriend—a TV reporter—was barely a step above paranormals in Foster’s worldview. Family, work life, the unrest in Deadtown, even the case we were investigating, it all felt like material that Foster could smear and twist into something nasty in his report to Commissioner Hampson. So we sat in silence.

“Do we get any in-flight entertainment?” I asked, pointing at the screen at the front of our compartment. I was joking; I assumed the screen was a computer monitor for police business.

“Good idea,” Foster said and reached for a control.

Daniel groaned as a video game loaded. “He does this every time.”

Zombie Kill. Clever name for a game that was all about killing zombies. By machine gun, by bomb, by machete, by fire—every sort of damage you could inflict on a body was directed at staggering, oozing, decaying ghouls-from-beyond-the-grave. Men, women, even zombie kids were obliterated as Foster worked the controls. He whooped as he decapitated an undead toddler clutching a ragged teddy bear.

“Ignore him,” Daniel advised. “I’ve learned to pick my battles.”

I didn’t want to cause Daniel any problems at work. So instead of tearing the controller out of Foster’s hands and breaking it over his bald head, I leaned back and closed my eyes. I pictured Foster in Deadtown, surrounded by zombies. Real ones, who’d laugh at his puny machete. And first up was Tina with her rhinestone gun. I smiled.
CODE RED? KILL IT DEAD!
would make quite the fashion statement sparkling across Foster’s forehead.

THE PARANORMAL DETENTION FACILITY WAS UNDERGROUND. Or at least that was my impression as I walked through the place. Like the van there were no windows anywhere. Harsh fluorescent lights glared down from the ceiling on tiled floors and cinder-block walls. Daniel walked beside me as we followed Foster through a labyrinth of corridors. We made so many turns I could’ve sworn we were back where we started when we came to a massive metal door.

“This is the maximum security wing,” Daniel said.

“You really think witnesses, who didn’t commit any crime, deserve maximum security?”

Daniel glanced at Foster, who watched him closely. “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I don’t make the rules.” His words reminded me of what Pam McFarren had said earlier. The rules weren’t perfect, but unless they crossed a line you couldn’t pick and choose.

A buzzer sounded, and a light by the door lit up. Gears turned and clanked. The heavy door slid open.

We stepped into a corridor lined with metal doors on both sides. Each door had a small, barred opening, about five and a half feet off the ground, shuttered by a gray metal plate. Behind us, the door shut with a resounding clang.

The silence felt as heavy as the door that sealed us in.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Foster. He went to the guard station, where two norms sat behind thick glass. “We’re here to do some interviews,” he said into an intercom. He paused, then turned to Daniel. “Which one you want to start with?” he asked.

“Andrew Skibinsky.”

“We’ll start with number 721,” Foster said into the intercom.

One of the guards stood up. A moment later he was escorting us down the hallway. He stopped in front of a door with 721 stenciled on its surface and slid open the metal plate over the window. “Skibinsky,” he said. “You got company.”

He opened the door. Daniel went inside. Over his shoulder I could see a narrow cell, six by ten at most. A toilet and sink occupied one corner. A cot was bolted to the side wall. There was no other furniture.

Skibinsky didn’t react to our entry. He sat on the cot, one leg resting across the other, examining his ankle. A splint held it straight, and a long row of black stitches wound its way crookedly up his leg.

The door shut behind us. Foster stayed in the hallway, but he watched us through the bars.

At the sound of the door closing, Skibinsky tugged his pants leg over the ankle splint and looked up. It’s hard to guess a zombie’s age, but I’d say he was in his midthirties. He had thinning, sandy hair and a sparse mustache. A scar marked the bridge of his nose, but it had healed, so he must have had it before he became a zombie. He wore a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. His red eyes went back and forth between Daniel and me.

“I see the doctor has been by.” Daniel gestured toward the zombie’s ankle. “How does it feel?”

Skibinsky’s forehead wrinkled. “When can I go home?”

Daniel ran a hand through his curls, looking uncomfortable. “We won’t keep you here any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“‘Absolutely necessary.’” Skibinsky snorted. “I know what that means. I ain’t never getting out of here. This is the place zombies disappear to, right?”

“You haven’t disappeared, Mr. Skibinsky. You’re a witness, here for your own safety.”

“Yeah, right. Guess that means you told my wife where I am.”

Daniel said nothing.

“Just like I thought. Poor Deb. She must be half out of her mind with worry. And I didn’t even do nothing.” When Daniel didn’t reply, Skibinsky snorted again. Then he looked at me. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Vicky Vaughn. I live in Deadtown, too.”

“You look human. What are you, a werewolf?”

“I’m a shapeshifter. I change form, like a werewolf, but I can change into any creature, not just a wolf. And my shifts aren’t tied to the full moon like theirs are.” I wasn’t in the mood to give a lecture on the differences between the Cerddorion and werewolves, but maybe this zombie would look at me with less hostility if he understood I was a paranormal, too.

“Vicky is an expert on demons,” Daniel said. “She’s here to help us determine whether there was demonic involvement in what happened last night.”

Skibinsky laughed, a deep baritone chuckle. “You mean horns and pointy tails and pitchforks—that kinda shit? I didn’t see nothing like that.”

“Just tell me what happened,” I encouraged. “When did Mr. Malone start acting strange?”

Skibinsky’s amusement vanished. “How ’bout when he snapped the driver’s neck? That strange enough for ya?”

“So before that, he was his usual self, is that what you’re saying?”

A shrug was his only reply.

I decided to back up a bit. “How would you describe Mr. Malone? What kind of guy was he?”

“Well for starters, I wouldn’t describe him as ‘Mr. Malone.’ Who the hell calls a zombie ‘Mister’ anything? When the bloodbags start using ‘Mister,’ you know you’re in trouble.” He glared at Daniel, even though I was the one who’d spoken. “He was Tom. Tommy to his ma. She lives out in Revere, but she comes into town to take him out for the day, first Sunday of every month. Guess she won’t be doing that no more.”

Silence stretched through the cell.

“If you don’t like Mr. Skibinsky,” I said gently, “what should I call you?”

My question seemed to surprise him, like he’d never expected anyone to ask. “Andy. Day I was born, Ma said, ‘Put Andrew on the birth certificate, but we’ll call him Andy.’”

“Andy, then. Tell me about Tom.”

“He was okay. Quiet. A good worker. I liked being on the same shift with him. He did his share.”

“And that’s how he was last night?”

“Just another night at the warehouse.” He examined his hands. Though the skin was zombie-green, they looked strong, with short, square nails. Hands that worked for a living. “You gotta understand. I was there to do my job. Not study my coworkers to see if maybe one of ’em was gonna suddenly turn into a homicidal maniac.”

Fair enough. “Tell me about the ride home.”

“Home.” Another snort. “I wish to Christ it was a ride home. I’d be asleep in my own bed next to Deb, like I should be.” Resentment flared up, then flickered away. “It’s like I already said. Just an ordinary night, until Tom up and killed the driver.” He scratched his chin, thinking. “Wait. There was one thing I noticed. Tom seemed a little . . . I don’t know. Twitchy. In the van after work. He kept bouncing his leg. I was sitting next to him, and it bugged me, so I told him to quit it. He did, but then a few minutes later he started again. I was about to remind him to knock it off when he killed the driver. And then everything went to hell.”

“You don’t know what set him off?”

“It wasn’t bloodlust, if that’s what you’re thinking. There wasn’t any blood until after the van crashed. And like I said, I was right beside him. If there was blood for Tom to smell, I’d have smelled it, too.”

“Okay, so Tom broke the driver’s neck. What happened next?”

“I yelled, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Or something along those lines. I tried to pull him off. At the same time, Weisner—the norm who’s our supervisor—grabbed for the wheel. Tom let go of the driver and locked his hands around Weisner’s neck. There was no pulling him off then. The boss’s face turned purple. His eyeballs bulged out like one of them cartoon characters. I punched Tom, hard, trying to make him let go, but he didn’t even feel it. We crashed. The next thing I remember is sitting on the sidewalk, tugging at my mask because I’d put it on crooked.”

“That’s when you broke your ankle?”

“Yeah. I felt it about ten seconds after I got my mask on straight. Hurt like hell then.” He pulled one leg on top of the other again and ran a finger along the line of stitches. “The bone was sticking clean through my skin. Compound fracture, the doc called it. He bolted everything back together, but I don’t know how well it’ll hold my weight.”

“Did you see the attack on the third victim?” I asked.

He let his leg fall back to the floor. “I wish I hadn’t. The poor son of a bitch came over to see if we needed help. He was asking if I was okay, reaching out a hand to help me up. I was trying to explain about my ankle when Tom loomed up behind him, looking like . . . Hell, I don’t even want to say it, but it’s true. Tom looked like a monster, like one of those dumb-ass movie zombies had walked off a screen and into the real world. He grabbed the norm and tore his head off his shoulders. Poor bastard didn’t even have a chance to scream.”

Foster moved on the other side of the door. Probably imagining himself in the world of Zombie Kill, charging onto the scene with a machete.

“There was blood everywhere.” Andy paused, tilting his head. “Now, there’s something strange—Tom didn’t even seem to notice it. He wasn’t wearing his mask, and you’d think the smell would have driven him nuts. The way it was all over him, all over the ground, he should’ve been chewing his own arm off, know what I mean? But he didn’t.”

“What did he do?”

“The other guys, they tackled him. Piled right on top of him. But he shook ’em off—all three—like a dog shaking off fleas.” Andy seemed to go inside himself as events unspooled in his mind. “I remember this part like it was happening in slow motion. The guys who’d tackled Tom were sprawled on their asses. Tom got up. He stood there, covered in blood, staring at the headless body at his feet. Still no sign of bloodlust. Then, all of a sudden, his head jerked up and he looked at the sky. The way he looked up, like he saw something that scared him, made me look, too. But I didn’t see nothing. Then Tom kinda groaned. He had his hands on his head, like this.” Andy made two fists and pressed them hard against his temples. “He dropped like someone had whacked his knees from behind with a baseball bat. He curled up into the whatchacallit—the fetal position—and started shaking. And then he just . . . blew up.” He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to clear the vision away.

“Andy,” I said, “this is important. Before Tom clutched his head, did you notice any injuries appearing on his body?”

“What, like my ankle? Nah. The accident didn’t touch him. Neither did the fellas taking him down.”

“Not from those things. I’m talking about wounds that suddenly appear, chunks of flesh gouged out from no apparent cause.”

“I didn’t see nothing like that.” His red eyes widened. “Oh, you mean like at the concert last winter? The one for . . . what was it called?”

“Paranormal Appreciation Day.”

That earned another snort. Not that I disagreed.

“Yeah, that. I was working, so I didn’t go, but I heard about it. All those zombies that got killed . . .” His red eyes widened. “That was some kind of demon attack, wasn’t it?”

“Sort of.” I didn’t need to go into the details of how the Morfran was the spirit that animated demons. The popular understanding was that demonic crows had attacked the concert. It was close enough.

“In our previous interview, you told me you heard crows cawing,” Daniel prompted. “When precisely did you hear them?”

“Right after Tom blew up. It was like
Blam!
And then this burst of cawing right away, like the noise had scared a flock somewhere. But you’re saying maybe it wasn’t crows. Not real ones.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe not.” From what Andy was telling us, Tom Malone’s death bore some of the hallmarks of a Morfran attack, but there were also significant differences. “The cawing you heard may have been exactly what you thought—some crows roosting nearby were startled by the sudden noise.”

Andy’s expression showed his doubts. “I never would’ve admitted it an hour ago, but I guess I was lucky, huh? Them crows could’ve gone for me next.”

I didn’t have any more questions, and I needed to process what we’d learned. I held out my hand, and Andy shook it. “Thank you for your help, Andy. I’ll get word to your wife.”