Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) (5 page)

“Like hell,” Foster muttered from the other side of the door. Damn. I’d forgotten he was there, listening in.

Daniel shook Andy’s hand, too, and I knew he’d help me find Deb Skibinsky. Maybe he was thinking about how his girlfriend, Lynne, would feel if he didn’t come home some night. Maybe he was thinking of the families of the other zombies—God knew how many—stashed in this underground complex. Anyway, it was the least we could do, and Daniel knew it.

WE LEFT ANDY SITTING ON HIS COT, CONTEMPLATING HOW close he’d come to being Morfran chow. If it was the Morfran.

“Is there such a thing as coffee in this place?” I asked Daniel. He nodded and led the way to a cafeteria. Despite my hopes that we could ditch Foster, he followed.

I poured steaming coffee into the biggest paper cup I could find and added a sleeve so it wouldn’t burn my hand. Daniel insisted on paying. “It’s on the department,” he said.

“In that case . . .” Foster tried.

“Use your own expense account,” Daniel said.

We sat down at a small table with two chairs. Within a minute, Foster had dragged over a chair from another table. Okay, I thought. There was no shaking the guy. I would’ve liked to bounce my thoughts off Daniel alone, but it wasn’t like I was saying anything off the record. Still, I didn’t have to welcome Foster to the conversation. I angled my chair so my back was toward him.

“It’s like I told Andy,” I said to Daniel. I swallowed some coffee. Hot. Strong. Bitter. Exactly what I needed. “What happened to Malone
almost
sounds like a Morfran attack.”

“But that ‘almost’ bothers you.”

I nodded. “Nothing in Andy’s description indicates the first stage of a Morfran attack. And that stage is crucial; it’s how the Morfran gets inside its victim to feed.”

Daniel waited while I gathered my thoughts.

“Andy was right there. He was watching Malone. There’s no way Malone could have experienced that stage without Andy noticing.” I sipped my coffee. “I’ve been on the receiving end of stage one, Daniel. It hurts like hell.” That attack had been cut short by Mab, who’d saved my life by drawing the Morfran away from me. “All I could think about was protecting myself from whatever was tearing at my flesh.”

Foster heaved a sigh, as though he wished the Morfran had won that battle. I scooted my chair closer to Daniel.

“I know what you mean,” Daniel said. “I saw it happen at the concert. The PDH I observed was frantic, twisting and ducking and trying to bat the crows away.”

“Exactly.” I suppressed a shudder at the memory of all that pain. “From the description we just heard, it sounds like Malone was attacked from the inside.”

“Can that happen?”

“The Morfran can possess humans.” Daniel’s lips compressed into a grim line, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. A human police officer we’d both known, not exactly a friend but a good cop, had been possessed by the Morfran. And if the Morfran comprises the soul of a demon, you can imagine what it drives a person to do. The cop had become a serial killer, tormented by the Morfran until he ended his own life.

“You think it can possess PDHs, too?” Daniel asked.

“That’s the trouble—I don’t see why it would. Zombies are nothing but food to the Morfran. And since the Morfran is always ravenous, it doesn’t make sense that the spirit would dwell inside a zombie without consuming it. Unless . . .”

Daniel leaned forward. “What?”

“Unless some kind of sorcery is involved.”

Behind me, Foster spewed coffee. Some landed on the back of my neck. “First demons, now sorcerers? Why are we wasting money on this freak?”

I ignored him as I gathered my thoughts. Sorcerers command demons. Or try to. It’s a dangerous business, and sooner or later most sorcerers get their heads handed to them—literally—by the demons they attempt to force into servitude. One sloppy gesture, one incantatory syllable uttered off-pitch, and the demon seizes the opportunity to attack its so-called master. As the drops of coffee cooled on my neck, I kinda wished Foster would try his hand at sorcery. He wouldn’t last one summoning.

“A highly skilled sorcerer
might
be able to bind the Morfran to a zombie,” I said to Daniel. “Instead of feeding directly on the zombie, the Morfran would feed on the acts of destruction it drove its host to commit.”

“Turning the zombie into a killing machine.”

Foster whooped with laughter. Instead, he should’ve been cowering under the table. Zombies are incredibly strong and nearly indestructible. A zombie driven by the Morfran would make an unstoppable weapon.

“If the binding is imperfect,” I said, “eventually the Morfran would turn on its host. That may be what happened last night.” I drained the last mouthful of coffee from my cup and stood up. “Let’s talk to the next witness. Maybe he saw something Andy didn’t. I don’t want to follow this line of reasoning too far if Malone’s death turns out to be an ordinary Morfran attack.”

Foster stood, too. “‘Line of reasoning,’” he mocked. “Could you enlighten me as to which part of what you’ve said has anything to do with reason?”

“What’s your problem, Foster? Don’t you believe in demons?” It’d almost be worth the expense of paying a sorcerer to send a few Harpies to visit the guy and change his mind.

Foster thrust his ugly face within an inch of mine. “I believe hiring you is a waste of taxpayers’ money.”

My demon mark flared. I’d show this jerk ugly. I wanted to get Foster in a headlock and ram his face into the cinder-block wall. Over and over, until his skull was cracked, his nose was a mushy pulp, and his teeth crunched under my boots. How satisfying that would—

“Leave it alone, Foster.” Daniel’s voice brought me back to myself as he stood and stepped between us. “Vicky’s a colleague, whether you like it or not.” He offered me his arm, like a Victorian gentleman going for a stroll, and we strolled right past Foster. I hoped a fly would invade his wide-open mouth as we passed.

“Ready for the next witness?” Daniel asked as we left the cafeteria.

“After that exchange, I’d be delighted to converse with another zombie.”

“Me, too. This guy didn’t see as much, though.” We waited for the heavy metal door to open and return us to the maximum security wing. When we were through, Daniel continued. “He was sitting in the back of the van, behind—”

“Hey, Detective.” The window in Andy Skibinsky’s door was still open. The square, barred opening in the door framed his face. “Got a minute? There’s something I forgot to tell you.”

“That window shouldn’t be open,” Foster said, coming up from behind us. He moved to close it.

“Wait,” Daniel said. Surprisingly, Foster paused. “What is it, Andy?”

“Could you come back inside? It’s not somethin’ I feel like shouting across the hall.”

“I’ll get a guard.” Daniel set off toward the guards’ station.

Andy looked at me and smiled. A zombie’s smile is never a pretty sight, but something in his face unnerved me. “Are you all right?”

“Great.” His smile broadened until it threatened to split his skin. A tic jittered at one corner of his mouth. He glanced from me to Foster, then back.

Daniel was returning with the guard, who sorted through his ring of keys. Andy pressed his face against the bars, straining to see them. The tic had moved to his eye. The black tip of his tongue protruded from his lips, and he was panting. His fingers twitched where he gripped the bars.

“Wait,” I said, putting out an arm to hold the others back. “Something’s not right.”

Andy snarled. He shook it off, and the smile reappeared. “Come on,” he wheedled. “Just open the door.”

“Andy, what’s happening?” I said.

He ignored me, his eyes fixed on the guard. “Open the door.”

“I’m shuttering that damn window,” Foster said. He reached for the metal plate.

“Open the door!” The two steel bars snapped off like plastic in the zombie’s fists. His arm shot out into the hallway, his hand grasping. It found Foster’s tie and clutched it.

Foster screamed—or tried to. The best he could manage was a gurgling sound as strong zombie fingers tightened their grip.

Inside his cell, Andy roared. The sound was way too intense to come from the throat of one zombie. The scream was wrapped in a sound like the cawing of a hundred angry crows.

Caw caw caw!

“Morfran!” I shouted.

Foster’s heels did a rapid-fire tap dance against the tiles.

The guard reached for his gun.

Foster’s eyes bulged. His tongue protruded from his purple face.

The guard fired, hitting Andy’s elbow. With a howl, he dropped Foster and withdrew his arm.

For a moment, all was quiet. I opened my senses to the demon plane. Dozens of crows screamed, but I couldn’t see them. They were
inside
Andy. And that meant there was no way to help him.

The best I could do was trap the Morfran when it emerged from his body. I drew Hellforged and readied the slate.

Bam!
The door shook as Andy threw his body against it.

“Open the doooor!”

Caw caw caw!

A bulge appeared in the door where Andy had dented it.

Caw caw caw caw caw cawcawcaw!

More dents, faster. A crack of light opened at the top of the frame.

I felt sick, waiting, my ears ringing with the racket of screams and caws. There was nothing I could do for Andy, no way to help.

The crack of light widened as the door buckled. The guard braced, his gun pointed at the door.

A moan, low and drawn out, then silence.

“Andy?” Daniel said.

“My head. Oh God, my head. I’m sorry. Tell my wife . . .” The words dissolved into another moan. The sound built in pitch to a scream.

Hellforged felt slippery in my sweaty palm. I knew the agony Andy was feeling. But I couldn’t get the Morfran out of him. All I could do was wait.

The screams came fast, a single, continuous sound. Like a siren, rising and falling and rising again without a pause. I wanted to cover my ears, block out the blare of his pain. So much pain. But I couldn’t. I had to be ready.

Then it happened. With a
boom!
and a wet, tearing noise, the Morfran burst from Andy’s body. Black goo shot past the cell door and splattered the ceiling and walls. Furious cawing filled the air as crows the size of eagles shot out of the cell.

I raised Hellforged in my left hand and circled it clockwise over my head.
Come on, you bastards,
I thought, drawing the deadly spirit toward me. The racket quieted a couple of decibels, and I felt a drag on the dagger. I glanced upward. The crows were circling, circling, following the motion of my arm. I concentrated, pulling them in.

The drag on Hellforged increased as the dagger pulled more of the Morfran into its orbit. The crows moved closer to its blade. A tingle of cold whispered against my fingertips. The icy feeling crept into my hand. Next, my wrist ached with a cold so intense it burned. When the feeling shot up my arm, I transferred the dagger to my right hand.

“Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”
Pointing Hellforged at the slate, I shouted the incantation to bind the Morfran. A sword of icy pain slashed across my chest and down my right arm. A streak of blue lightning erupted from the dagger’s tip and slammed into the target. The slate jumped a foot in the air. It clattered to the floor, shuddering. It shuddered again and then lay still. A curl of bluish smoke, almost lazy, wafted toward the ceiling.

Silence settled over the hallway.

I sheathed Hellforged and rubbed the lingering cold from my arms.

Daniel rose from where he’d been crouching against the wall. Spots of black stuff—the remains of Andy Skibinsky—dotted his tie and the side of his jaw. He took out a handkerchief and rubbed his face.

The guard had fainted, but he was alive. We went to Foster. He lay on his back, gasping for breath. His suit was clean, no black goo, but there was a wet spot on his trousers where he’d pissed himself.

“He’s all right,” Daniel said. He was too nice a guy for me to imagine there was disappointment in his voice.

“Andy’s broken ankle,” I said. Daniel looked at me, uncomprehending. “It was a compound fracture. That’s how the Morfran possessed him. Last night after it exploded out of Malone, it entered his wound.”

“But you got it, right?” He gestured toward the slate.

I opened my senses to the demon plane. The dingy corridor grew dingier, smells of sulfur and brimstone assaulted my nostrils. The air was full of sounds—screams, cackles, howls, shrieks. Demons were out and about, tormenting their victims. But the sounds were all distant; there was no cawing, not even an echo. No trace of Morfran here.

“I did,” I said, pulling back from the demon plane. “This is a certified Morfran-free zone.” A thought struck me. “But we don’t know whether any of the other witnesses were possessed by the Morfran when it left Malone’s body. Were there other injuries?”

“They got banged around some, but nothing like Skibinsky’s fracture. On the other hand, they’re . . . you know, zombies.”

I did know, of course. Because zombies don’t heal, every zombie in Deadtown carries around cuts and scrapes, or worse. If the Morfran could possess a zombie by entering through an open wound, there wasn’t a single zombie in Boston who was safe.

BACK AT THE CHECKPOINT, I WAS ASTONISHED WHEN I presented my receipt and actually got my weapons back. Two daggers, a pistol, and two magazines of bronze bullets. I couldn’t believe it.

“You’ve got connections now.” Daniel smiled, but grimness touched his expression. “I’ll make sure the clearance list specifies you’re allowed to bring Hellforged through. Tonight proved we need it.”

“Good.” I didn’t need an argument each time I went through the checkpoint. Especially with my demon mark springing to life at the slightest provocation. “How much paperwork will that take?”

“It shouldn’t be too bad. At sunrise they’re going to lower the restriction level from Code Red to Code Yellow. But I want to make sure you and Hellforged have clearance at all levels.”

Code Red meant that all paranormals were confined to Deadtown, no exceptions. Or so I’d thought until Daniel actually got me through. Code Yellow lifted restrictions on all non–previously deceased, so any paranormal who wasn’t a zombie could come and go. In between was Code Orange, which gave clearance to certain Deadtown residents on a preapproved list. Kane was on the Code Orange list. Normally I wasn’t, but my new Code Red clearance would trickle down through the other colors. Cool.

“Hampson’s calling it yellow?” I was surprised. “Even after another Morfran possession tonight?”

“It’s not entirely up to Hampson. As commissioner, he makes the initial call, but the guy hates paranormals so much he’d keep it at red all the time. There’s pressure on him not to overdo it. The mayor’s office, for example.” Mayor Milliken’s daughter had been caught in the zombie plague and now lived on my block. “And businesses that employ werewolves don’t like their staff to miss too much work. Some of those companies have a lot of pull.”

Nice to see we monsters occasionally had somebody on our side.

“Of course,” Daniel continued, “Foster’s probably singing a song to Hampson right now about what happened tonight. So you’re right—Hampson might try to keep the code level where it is, or go down half a step to orange. But so far no word of that has come through. I think it’ll drop to yellow.”

With another promise to get official approval for me to carry Hellforged into Boston, Daniel said good night. Between the checkpoints, the New Combat Zone was strangely quiet. Nobody lingered on the street. Buildings were dark. Boards covered the windows smashed in this morning’s riot. The only place open was Creature Comforts. I paused, wondering if I should stop in. I wanted to see how Axel was doing. Plus Juliet was probably there, along with half the vampires of Deadtown, hunting among the humans who visit the bar to mingle with the monsters. Even if word of the riot scared casual thrill-seekers away, there’d be a good supply of vampire junkies offering themselves up for dinner.

I wasn’t in the mood to watch vampires flirt with their prey. I needed to figure out what was going on with the Morfran. And to do that, I had to go home and spend some time with
The Book of Utter Darkness
. A shudder went through me, and I almost ran to Axel’s front door to yank it open, greet some friends, have a drink, engage in mindless conversation. Anything to avoid that damn book.

But the Morfran’s reemergence meant fate was pushing onward. And only the book could show me the signs to watch for and suggest where they were pointing.

Shoulders hunched, I trudged toward the checkpoint into Deadtown.

On the other side, zombies thronged the streets. Tomorrow’s Code Yellow would mean nothing to them. There were no zombies on the Code Yellow list. It wasn’t until things calmed down to the level of Code Green—normal restrictions—that zombies could leave Deadtown. And that was only with a permit and a norm sponsor.

So it was no wonder, I thought as I pushed through the turnstile and stepped into Deadtown, that the zombies gathered here were giving me dirty looks.

If you’ve ever gotten a dirty look from a zombie, chances are it took . . . oh, about a week before the possibility of a good night’s sleep returned. And here were six or seven of them all trying to outdo each other with nightmare-inducing scowls.

I can scowl, too. I did, and I kept walking.

One zombie, a beefy guy in camouflage pants and a black T-shirt, stepped off the curb. I stopped and looked him straight in the eye. He was even more scary-looking than most zombies. The right side of his face looked like it had been attacked with a cheese grater, and there was a golf ball–size hole in his neck. I didn’t blink as we locked stares.

“I saw you leave before, after they called the Code Red.” His voice came out in a growl. “What are you, some kind of spy?”

My right forearm began tingling. “You think spies waltz in and out where everyone can see them? I had business to attend to.”

“Business?” His fingers clamped into a fist. “What kind of business?”

“None of yours, that’s for damn sure.” Who the hell did this guy think he was? The tingling intensified, rapidly heating as it spread up my arm. Sunburn. Flames. Molten lava. Before the feeling reached “nuclear meltdown,” I slowed my breathing and started counting.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
I pushed down the burning, fast-rising anger. Anger that wasn’t mine. Wasn’t me. The anger of the Destroyer.

The zombie got in my face. “I said, ‘What kind of business?’”

Four . . . five . . .
My demon mark blazed with pain. I could almost smell charred flesh.
Six . . .
I bit the inside of my cheek.

Two of his friends were behind him now. He reached out and gave me a shove—almost gentle, but hard enough to let me feel his strength.

Shit, what number was I on? My arm burned. Six. I remembered counting to six.
Seven . . .
If I gave into this rage, it would possess me. I’d become a puppet of the Destroyer.
Eight . . .
But damn it, so what? This zombie was a bully. I hate bullies. I quit counting and clenched my fists. I’d like nothing better than to pound his head into the pavement, over and over until the left side matched the shredded right. Until I heard the crack of his skull fracturing. I’d stomp his brains into mush and then—

“What’s going on?” a woman’s voice asked in a tough, don’t-mess-with-me tone, as someone stepped between me and Mr. Ugly.

I blinked away the image of the zombie’s broken body turning to pulp under my boots. The pain still surged; the rage still wanted out. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard—once, twice, three times—trying to regain control.
Breathe, Vicky.
Better. A little.

When I opened my eyes, I got an extreme close-up of the face of Pam McFarren, the Goon Squad sergeant. Her expression was a strange mixture of annoyance and concern. “You all right?” she asked.

I nodded. I was still focused on swallowing and didn’t trust my voice.

McFarren turned to Mr. Ugly and his friends. “Go home. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re only making things worse.” Four other Goons, all zombies, flanked her in a line, their backs to me. Nobody moved.

“Go on!” she shouted. “Get out of here. Now!”

Feet shuffled; zombies fell back. Mr. Ugly made an overelaborate bow, like something a ham actor would do in a Shakespeare play, and backed away.

The male Goons advanced, making sure the zombies dispersed.

McFarren spun around to face me. This time, her face was pure anger. “Again?” she sputtered. “What the hell did you think you were doing? Picking a fight with a guy like that, when all his buddies are itching to back him up. Are you nuts?”

I rubbed my demon mark. “Something like that. Look, thank you for stepping in again. I’ve been lucky you were around.”

“Lucky? What the hell do you think luck has to do with it? I’ve got orders to protect you. As if I need anything extra on my to-do list right now. For some reason, you get special treatment, while I’m trying to keep the peace with a fraction of my usual staff.”

I stared at her. “I didn’t know.”

She continued her tirade like she hadn’t heard me. “All PDH patrols are working overtime. The brass is keeping our human partners off the streets for now. Too dangerous. And that’s for trained officers who pack exploding bullets. I know you’re not a norm, but you look too much like one to be playing chicken with a gang of pissed-off zombies.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You know what? I was wrong—you
were
lucky. I got word you’d passed through the checkpoint, and I could scrounge up enough cops to make those guys back off. But we can’t be everywhere. This is the worst I’ve seen it in Deadtown. Everyone’s at each other’s throats. Tonight, two werewolves were critically injured when their pack tried to take on a group like the one you were just staring down.”

Werewolves. Kane.
But no, it wouldn’t be Kane. He was a lone wolf who didn’t belong to a pack. Relief opened some breathing room in my chest.

Maybe Kane’s unity rally would do some good. Unity was exactly what Deadtown needed right now.

“Okay,” I assured McFarren, “I promise I won’t pick any fights with roving zombie mobs.”

She gave me a long, hard look. “Don’t joke,” she said. “Something’s brewing. I haven’t felt this level of tension in Deadtown since I woke up after the plague.”

MCFARREN WAS RIGHT. THE TENSION SHE DESCRIBED WAS everywhere. It was physical, like thick, oily smog hanging over the streets. Normally, an after-dark walk through Deadtown wasn’t all that different from walking along other city streets. As long as you belonged in the neighborhood, people left you alone. Like anyone else, zombies had their own concerns: job, family, making ends meet, getting a little downtime, stuffing as much food as they could fit into their faces.

Wait.

That was part of the strange atmosphere. The zombies weren’t eating.

A chill shivered up my spine. Deadtown without zombies munching away on junk food is like a spring day without birds singing. Eerie.

Yet it was true. The hot dog carts, ice cream trucks, and falafel stands that line Deadtown’s streets were out in force, same as always. But there were no lines in front of them. The vendors stood listlessly, heads hanging, as zombies walked by, ignoring their offerings. The hot dog seller who usually ate his wares with one hand while serving customers with the other leaned against his cart, both arms dangling as he stared into space.

I stopped and asked if he was okay.

He shrugged. “Business is a little slow tonight, I guess.” Hope stole across his face. “You want a hot dog?”

I didn’t, really. But I bought one.

The hot dog seller got busy, slathering on mustard and onions. “You know,” he commented, “most nights I eat a dog or two for every one I sell. But tonight . . .”

A group of zombies passed on the sidewalk. The smell of onions and steamed hot dogs wafted from the open cart, but not a single head turned. It wasn’t just eerie; it was downright weird.

I overpaid for the hot dog and told the guy to keep the change, which got me a zombie grimace-smile. As I walked away, I bit into the hot dog. A little salty, but not bad. Maybe I should’ve made the guy’s night and bought two.

ONCE AGAIN, I DIDN’T TURN DOWN KANE’S STREET. ONCE again, I thought about how much I wanted to see him, imagined the feel of his arms around me. And once again, I turned away.

Excuses? I had a fistful of ’em. It was late. He’d be sleeping. He had a million things to do before his rally. With the restriction dropping to Code Yellow, he’d be up extra early to make up for work he’d missed today. The last thing he needed was a middle-of-the-night drop-in from yours truly.

I was in my building, waiting for the elevator, when I finally admitted the real reason I was avoiding Kane. We needed to talk. And I had absolutely no idea what to say.