Dead to Rites

  Tsura appeared outta nowhere beside me, leanin’ in to hold down his other arm. She was gasping for breath and looked more shocked at what she’d done than I was, but she jerked me a solid nod.

  Tough broad. Think I said that already.

  The guns still roared, but on both sides now. I dunno how he’d gotten hold of ’em, though “magic” seemed a pretty good bet, but Nessumontu clutched a chopper in each hand. No way most humans woulda had the strength to fire ’em that way and maintain any control, but the mummy wasn’t relying on human strength, and he’d picked up the principles real damn quick. He marched across the stage, ignoring the dust-flinging impacts that dug into him. Strips of wrapping trailing behind him, he returned bursts of fire in turn. And with every step he took, more Uptown Boys fell.

  Gettin’ into Pete’s noodle shoulda been duck soup, given how well I know him. Between the distractions and the noise, though, along with the ambient magics and especially the shroud of outside emotion the succubus had wrapped him in, it took every speck of concentration I could muster, along with a boost from my wand. A couple times he tried to break free, though whether he was fightin’ my mojo or just throwing an ing-bing over everything going on, I couldn’t tell ya. Between the two of us, though, Tsura’n me managed to hold him pretty still. And eventually, I broke through. I couldn’t just yank McCall’s influence outta him. That woulda taken more time than I could spare right now. But I was able to bury it pretty deep, bringin’ the real Pete Staten back to the surface.

  “Wha…? Mick? What the hell…?”

  “No time. You… Hang on.”

  I twisted around, aimed the L&G at a clump of Shea’s thugs and fired. Gats jammed, footing slipped, and basically they were sitting ducks for Nessumontu.

  “Right. No time. You got your service piece on you?”

  “I… What?”

  “Your revolver, Pete. You got it?”

  “Uh, yeah… Coat pocket…”

  I reached in, grabbed it.

  “Tsura, get him outta here.”

  “But—”

  “Kid, you done spectacular. Better’n I coulda hoped. I’m impressed, and I’m grateful. And I’ll be even more grateful if you get my friend outta here. Please.”

  She ducked under his arm, took his weight on her shoulders to help him up, and they were off. Me, I took a few seconds I probably couldn’t spare to get a handle on everything.

  Shea and his last few guys were putting up a good fight, and it was possible they might yet do enough damage to Nessumontu to put him down, but it didn’t look probable. If nothin’ else, he could wait a tiny bit longer while I took care of somethin’ a tad more immediate.

  The battle overhead was furious as ever, but it’d slowed. Ramona and McCall were both coated in blood, spattering the walls in crimson with every flap of a wing, every slash of a talon, every spitting scream. Ribbons of flesh hung worse’n Nessumontu’s wrappings. Holes gaped in the membrane of their wings, showin’ the ceiling above, and in patches of torn clothing and flesh, revealing raw meat and glistening bone.

  I felt sick. I knew the fight was gonna be brutal, and I’d felt no compunction about helpin’ Pete before Ramona—still didn’t—but I had no idea it was gonna get that nasty. That either of ’em was still aloft, was a testament to… I dunno—how strong succubi are? The fury and hate they felt for each other? Somethin’.

  Whatever the case, though, I didn’t mean to let McCall win this. I was steamed at Ramona, but she wasn’t the one who’d taken Pete.

  I crossed my wrists so I could level the L&G and Pete’s roscoe at the same target, carefully tracked the spinning, thrashing pair across the ceiling, cocked back the hammer while ignoring the twinge in my mitt that came from using the damn thing…

  And stopped.

  Maybe it was somethin’ in the succubi’s own mojo throwin’ mine off. Maybe it was that same sporadic bad luck I’d been suffering for weeks now. But I could just feel that my aim was off, that even all the luck I’d sucked outta the thugs and stored in the wand wasn’t gonna be enough for me to make this shot with any level of certainty.

  I hadda get closer. A lot closer.

  Dammit.

  I ran. I put everything I had into it, building up a head of steam only your best Olympic sprinters mighta come close to matching. I blasted past most of the rows of chairs, used the last as a stairstep, and I was up onto the platform, still goin’ flat out. I kept my head down, hunched tight as I could without slowing, as I passed behind Nessumontu. Wound a bit of luck around me to avoid gettin’ clipped by any of the Uptowners still standing…

  Wasn’t enough, not with the specter of bad fortune doggin’ my steps.

  I felt the slug pass through my thigh, takin’ skin and muscle—to say nothin’ of a chunk of ragged pants leg—with it. I let myself scream, just once, with the shock and pain, and I couldn’t help but stagger a pace or two, but I’d be damned if I was gonna let it slow me. Took everything I had, every ounce of will and another surge of magic into my own aura to strengthen the limb and dull the burning, but my drumstick was gonna hold up because I frickin’ well needed it to hold up.

  For just a few more steps…

  A few more tough, agonizing steps, as I hit the slab Nessumontu’d been lyin’ on, almost slipping on the shattered glass. One foot on the stone, then the next, chargin’ uphill now, the makeshift bier rockin’ under me, threatening to send me toppling, until I finally reached the top on my good leg and leapt.

  Bullets flashed past under me, ricocheting off the stone; a couple chips embedded themselves in the heels of my Oxfords. I stretched out with my empty hand, reaching for the heavy light fixture hangin’ overhead. Fingers clenched around the metal rim, started to slide, tightened, gripped, slipped again…

  From my other hand, wrapped around pistol and wand both, I poured every last bit of luck still stored in the wand—to help me catch myself and to make sure the fixture’s brackets, already startin’ to creak and whine, held my weight.

  It held. Unbelievably—and, I was horrifyingly aware, briefly—it all held.

  Meant I had time for one shot. Since I’d just drained the L&G, a single unaugmented shot.

  I don’t use guns much. It’d been a long time since I’d pulled a trigger. And the two succubi were still spinning and thrashing around each other like cannibal cats, making for one helluva tough target.

  On the other hand, I been around a long time, and I fought in a lotta different eras, a lotta different wars. I don’t carry because I don’t like to, not because I can’t.

  I hung there like a tranquilized monkey, gently rockin’ back and forth, sighting down the barrel of the revolver, watchin’ as wings and arms and bloody backs flashed past me…

  Bang.

  McCall shrieked, arching backwards as the round tore through a shoulder blade right at the joint of a wing. Wasn’t iron or enchanted or anything, so it wouldn’ta been a crippling wound under most circumstances, but… these circumstances were a damn sight far from “most.”

  I saw her bend back, saw Ramona lunge, bloody teeth bared, and then the luck I’d pumped into the fixture ran out. Brackets snapped, my grip slipped, and wham!

  I was lyin flat on the floor, new agony tearin’ through me as several heavy shards of glass punched through my coat and into my back—agony that only got worse as the heavy round fixture landed on top of me. I felt my ribs bruise, and the bulb, which shattered on impact, gouged another semicircle into my skin. Groaning, I shoved it off and rolled over, wincing as every motion tugged at the wounds.

  McCall hit the platform a few feet away, hard enough to shake the concrete. Her whole face was a mess of lacerations, her throat open to the air. She choked on spurting blood. Ramona landed beside her, staggering a little but upright. Carefully she knelt down beside her “sister.”

  I knew I wanted to turn away from what was about to happen, but I couldn’t make my body move fast enough.

  Ramona slowly drove the talons o
f her pointer and middle fingers through McCall’s eyes, digging deep but curving downward, driving into the bone above the mouth rather than through into the brain. McCall screamed like I’d never heard, thrashin’ and flailing to get away, to grab Ramona’s arm and make her stop, but she couldn’t find the control or the strength.

  Then she couldn’t even scream as Ramona slid the claws on her other hand up under McCall’s chin, until she had a good, solid grip inside the muscle and bone.

  And then she pulled her hands, one hooked in the upper half of McCall’s skull, one in the lower, in opposite directions.

  I shut my eyes just in time to avoid seeing the results, but I couldn’t shut my ears to the horrible crack or the moist tearing sounds that followed.

  Instead I finally turned over and dragged myself to my feet. The pain was already subsiding some, though I wasn’t gonna be able to heal right until I got those damn shards outta me. Still, between those and the gunshot, I was pretty proud of the fact that I wasn’t limping too bad as I made my way over to Nessumontu, where he stood over the lone survivor of the once fearsome Uptown Boys gang.

  Nolan Shea, of course. He was nursin’ a mangled left arm and his mug was pale with shock and pain, but he’d probably make it.

  “How you doin’, old man?” I asked the mummy. Hey, there ain’t a lotta people I can honestly call that, y’know?

  “In more than a small amount of discomfort, in truth. I think, however, far better than I would have been without your assistance, Mick Oberon. Thank you.”

  “Yeah, well. You’re welcome. I didn’t realize you had that kinda power, though. How’d they even take you in the first place?”

  “Surprise. And I cannot invoke such heka easily. I have been gathering strength every moment I was encased in their cage of glass, and it will be some time before I can even contemplate doing so again. I require rest.”

  “You’n me, both. I—”

  Shea interrupted us with a deliberate cough.

  “Gloat all you want, Oberon. You’re a dead man.”

  “I wasn’t gloating. You’d know if I was—”

  “Fleischer’s gonna come for you. You won’t see it comin’, but you’re already a corpse. You just…” Another cough, then a pained wheeze as he clutched at his arm. “You just don’t—”

  “Shea.” I took a step, stood over him. “Fleischer’s long gone, isn’t he? Dusted outta here soon as this whole mess started, I figure.”

  “Yep. You won’t find him. But he’ll find—”

  “Means he knows I was part of what happened here, but he don’t know how much, or what exactly I did. Not what happened, not in any detail. And there ain’t anybody who did see the whole thing who’s gonna be able to tell him.”

  “What? Yeah, there—”

  I wonder if he saw it coming.

  I stepped back away from the corpse—didn’t need blood and brain on my shoes—and slid Pete’s gat into a coat pocket. Then I turned to meet Nessumontu’s questioning gaze.

  “I ain’t proud of that,” I told him. Wasn’t lyin’, either. Killing that casually don’t sit right with me at all. Especially not after… some of what I’ve done in the past. “But I can’t afford to let Fleischer find out the details of what happened here, and I sure can’t have him hearin’ it from someone who already had a grudge against me and woulda painted it even worse than it was. As it is, he’s another new enemy I can’t afford, especially given the kinda power he can bring to bear. So anything I can do to keep him in the dark, make me less of a priority to him…”

  “You need not justify yourself to me, Mick Oberon.”

  “Oh, but you fucking well do to me, you bastard!”

  Ramona staggered up from behind me, still drenched in blood. She’d resumed human form, so I couldn’t see how bad her wings mighta been mangled, but she still bore rents and gashes across nearly every inch of exposed flesh. Some of ’em had already started to close, but it was gonna be a good long while before she was anywhere near whole. She took another step, winced, and angrily tore a flap of hanging skin off her arm.

  “You’ve looked better, doll. But then, pretty sure so have—”

  “How did she know I was here, Mick?”

  I thought about lyin’, but really, what was the point?

  “I called her. Told her I’d lured you here with the promise of the mummy, that if she met me here with Pete, I’d have you trussed up out back and ready for delivery.”

  From her expression, that didn’t come as a surprise, but she was not happy about it. Her forehead bulged as her horns tried to emerge again.

  “You betrayed me!”

  “Not at all. My deal with McCall was that I serve you up helpless and ready to be dragged home. I didn’t. Hell, I helped you beat her, or didn’t you notice me pluggin’ her in the back?”

  “Look at me! Look at what she did to me! Because of you!”

  “You’ll heal. And it’s better than her draggin’ you home, ain’t it? Or havin’ to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you did this for me? Because that’s a load of horse shit even for you, Mick!”

  “No. I did this for him…” I pointed a thumb at Nessumontu. “But mostly for Pete. Who wouldn’ta been dragged into any of this if not for McCall. You might wanna remember this, just in case you ever feel the urge to threaten any of my friends.”

  “So I was here as a… what? Distraction? I was just a pawn in your plan?”

  “If that were the case,” I told her, tryin’ hard not to growl it, “it’d make us about even, wouldn’t it?”

  Horns burst free, talons extended again… And just as quickly retracted. Ramona spun on her heel and stalked off into the shadows, leavin’ a trail of wet, squelching footprints behind her.

  I wondered where things might stand next time we bumped into each other.

  And apparently I wasn’t the only one.

  “I fear assisting me has made you several new enemies this day,” Nessumontu said.

  “Eh, I’m used to it. What’s next for you?”

  “I? I shall return to the bazaar, at least for a time. It is… not the most dignified of resting places, but it will allow me time to recuperate—and to prepare the spells necessary to safeguard myself from events such as these repeating themselves in the future. Do you believe Tsura Sava might be willing to assist in watching over me until such time as I have completed those preparations?”

  Huh. I hadn’t even thought about the fact that she’d be leavin’ when the carnival did. Found I didn’t much care for the notion. But, “Yeah. I mean, I’ll ask, but I’m sure she would.”

  “I owe you both a great debt, Mick Oberon. Is there anything I might do for you, before I return to my slumber?”

  “Nah, I don’t…”

  Wait a minute.

  “Actually, pal…” I stepped over, draped my arm around his shoulders. He looked puzzled, least as much as he could without peepers in his head, but didn’t move. “There just might be.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Don’t do it, Mick.”

  It’d been the first thing she’d said to me, after Nessumontu and me’d slipped outta the warehouse and found her hiding with Pete in a neighboring alleyway.

  “Huh?”

  “What you’re planning. Don’t do it.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She’d looked just as upset, just as scared, as she had back when the bullets and the blood were flyin’. “I don’t have to. I’ve sensed it, felt it. Whatever it is… it’s terrifying. Dreadful. Please, Mick, for God’s sake, don’t do it.”

  I almost listened.

  I trusted her; she’d earned that, and more, over the past days. To hear her react this strongly, almost begging, made my blood run cold.

  But in the end, I couldn’t. I’d worked too hard, owed too much to too many people, not to try. Not now, when I could finally give back a life
that’d been stolen too many times already.

  Which is why I was standin’, the next evening, in a bedroom that’d gotten real crowded. Lacy sheets matched lacy curtains, all kindsa pretty gewgaws sat on the shelves, and I could barely even see any of it through the thick, suffocating haze of emotion. Agonizing hope and an almost comfortable fear. Soft sobs and rasping breaths, nervous sweat and the subtle tang of a mother’s tears.

  It was maybe just as well that Tsura, caught up in the lingering worry of her vision, had refused to come into the house, let alone the room, instead waiting outside and pacing the lawn. We couldn’t have fit another soul in here.

  I’d squeezed myself into a far corner, tryin’ to keep outta the way. Archie waited next to me, rollin’ an unlit cigarette between two fingers, peepers locked on his boss and friend. Fino and Bianca Ottati held each other tight, her arm around his waist, his around her shoulder. She wept openly; he was praying under his breath in Italian. Celia stood across from them in the doorway, steadyin’ herself with one hand on the jamb.

  Between ’em, lyin’ flat in the same bed she hadn’t left in over a year, lay the slumbering Adalina. And over her, arms outstretched and entering the second half-hour of his unbroken chant, stood Nessumontu.

  Spells of protection, revival… and awakening.

  I’d found the mummy some less conspicuous clothing, a complete suit and greatcoat, as well as a pair of cheaters with real dark lenses to hide his suspicious lack of eyes. It made him look kinda hinky, wearing ’em inside, but less so than the alternative. Besides, the Ottatis didn’t much care who the fella was, if he could do what we all hoped he could do.

  Archie was, under the circumstances, a little more suspicious.

  “Where’d you say you found this mug?” he whispered at me.

  “Just an old acquaintance,” I answered.

  “Old acquaintance. Right.”

  Well, it was true. We were acquainted, and he was real old, so…

  “Why?” I asked.