City of the Snakes (5 page)

I don’t chase to the railings. I just slump and shut my eyes to the nightmare.

“Capac?” Jerry says, bending to help me. “Who was that? Are you—”

“Go and bring me her body,” I cut him short.

“But what about Davern and the—”

“Go. And bring me. Her body.” My tone leaves no room for argument. Jerry’s seen me order people’s deaths before. He knows, the mood I’m in, I could easily order his. Saluting with a snappy “Yes, sir!” he leaves me on the balcony and goes to sweep up the debris. After a few minutes alone, listening to the sounds of the city, I drag myself back inside to my chair and the silent, lifeless puppets.

There was no body. The ground was bare. I didn’t believe Jerry. Insisted on checking for myself. Walked all around the building—nothing. Which means she disappeared in midair, or someone cleaned up ultra-quick after her, or she really did learn to fly.

I retired to my office once I’d abandoned the search. Told Mags to let nobody disturb me, not even Jerry or Frank. Sat on the floor, surrounded by dolls, and gave myself over to madness. But it refused to take me, and after a slew of numb hours, I replayed my brief conversation with Conchita and recalled what she’d said before taking off. “Ferdy wants to see you.”

“Ferdy” was Conchita’s pet name for The Cardinal. I’m not sure what she meant—Dorak was human, so I can’t imagine any way for him to return—but as I play her words over, I begin to think that I know what she wanted. Leaving my fortress of dolls and memories, I order a limo—Thomas is still off work, recovering from the crack over the head Adrian gave him before taking his place at Solvert’s—and tell the driver to take me to the Fridge.

The Fridge is another of The Cardinal’s grotesque playthings. A huge morgue, home to thousands who died in his employ or opposing him. The dead lie in refrigerated caskets, preserved against the ravages of time, awaiting Judgment Day and the call to arise. I’ve added my fair share of corpses to the pile but never visited personally until now.

The Fridge is camouflaged by the shell of an old building. Access is through computer-coded doors. Inside, row upon row of metal caskets, stacked five high, twenty wide. The rows stretch ahead, seemingly without end, and rise all the way to the distant ceiling.

There’s great excitement at my appearance. Staff crowd the landings overhead, eager to catch a glimpse. I guess I’m the next best thing to royalty in this city, and it’s not often that my minions—apart from those who work in Party Central—get a chance to gawk at me.

I stand my ground where I entered, waiting for a guide to come. It turns out to be the chief pathologist, Alex Sines. We’ve met before, at various functions, and a couple of times in Party Central. He’s a pain in the ass but the best in his field.

“Capac,” he beams as if we’re bosom buddies. “You’re the last person I expected to find. Come to check up on us, or is—”

“I want to see The Cardinal’s coffin,” I interrupt.

That throws him. “The…? Oh, you mean the other Cardinal. Mr. Dorak.”

“Yes.”

He smiles falteringly. “It’s rather late for a visit. May I ask—”

“Just take me to him. Now. Before I replace you with someone who knows how to obey when he’s given an order.”

Sines bristles but has sense enough not to bite back. He leads me through the maze of coffins. I follow silently, ignoring the onlookers, turning a deaf ear to their speculative whispers.

We end up at a crypt deep inside the Fridge. A small, octagonal, metal growth, the only freestanding structure within the building. Everyone else has to share. The Cardinal, in death as in life, resides alone. The entrance to the crypt is barred by a computerized door.

“I’m the only one who knows the combination,” Sines boasts, keying
it in. “The walls are lined with every kind of alarm imaginable. The Cardinal made sure his body wouldn’t be vulnerable to grave-robbers.”

“What happens when you die?” I ask.

“I keep the code on file, in a secret location. My successor will be able to retrieve it.”

I step back as the door swings open with a series of heavy clicks. A light is shining inside. “It comes on automatically when the door opens,” Sines explains in answer to my inquisitive look.

I edge forward. The Cardinal’s coffin is set on an ornately carved slab of marble in the middle of the room. He used to say he didn’t care what happened to his body when he died, but the specific instructions he left about what he wanted done with his remains proved that was a lie.

“Lock the door after me,” I tell Sines.

He blinks. “The room isn’t ventilated. A few hours inside and you’ll run out of air.”

“That’s OK. I’ll signal when I want to leave.”

“There isn’t a button you can press, and nobody would hear you if you hammered on the door or walls—they’re too thickly insulated.”

I frown. “Then give me an hour and come back. If I want to stay longer, I’ll let you know when you open the door.”

“You’re the boss,” Sines mutters, hits a couple of buttons and watches, troubled, as the door slides shut, entombing me with The Cardinal.

“And then there were two,” I mumble, turning to face the coffin.

No answer.

I circle the coffin. Long. Wide. Black. Ferdinand Dorak’s name engraved on a silver plaque, along with birth and death dates, and a short epitaph—
NOBODY TOLD ME THERE’D BE DAYS LIKE THESE
. I laugh out loud when I read that. Nice to see the old bastard’s sense of humor didn’t desert him at the end. I skipped The Cardinal’s funeral. Had other things to worry about, like running a city all set to blow in the wake of its former ruler’s death.

“Where are you now?” I whisper, touching the coffin (it’s warm, some kind of hard plastic, softer than I expected). “Riding the devil’s ass in hell? Tearing up the heavens? Simply rotting here?”

I don’t know whether or not I believe in life after death. I’m proof that the dead can be brought back, but that doesn’t mean they can move on. What happens to the billions of spirits not waylaid by the
villacs
? Do they find rest elsewhere, or did the Ayuamarcans, by their very existence, signify that this plane is all there is? The priests are powerful, but I can’t picture them wrenching control of a soul from a god or devil. Perhaps they’re only able to wield power over the dead because the dead have nowhere else to go.

Shaking my head, I check the lid of the coffin. It’s held in place by screws that can be easily turned. Suppressing a shiver, I undo them all and gently slide the lid aside. I’m ready for anything—a living, grinning Ferdinand Dorak, a
villac
, an empty coffin—but all I’m faced with is a standard, gray-skinned corpse.

The Cardinal’s hair is a mess, and his nails look jagged and long on his shrunken fingers, but otherwise he’s much as I remember. His hands are crossed on his chest in the traditional manner of the dead. I check the smallest finger of his left hand. It used to bend away from the others each time he created a new Ayuamarcan. Now it’s straight. Whoever’s bringing the dead back to life, it isn’t this decrepit stiff.

Curious, I press a couple of fingers to the flesh of the former Cardinal’s left cheek. There’s a thin snapping sound as the bone gives way. I pull back quickly before it crumples. The Cardinal was in a pretty sorry state when they scraped him off the pavement at the foot of Party Central—a fifteen-floor drop takes it out of even the toughest son of a bitch. The undertakers did an incredible job piecing him back together for the televised funeral, but it’s all spit and glue. One punch to the jaw and his head would explode.

I grin at the thought of desecrating the corpse—part of me hates The Cardinal for creating me and sentencing me to eternity—but I don’t. He was only obeying his nature, as I’ve obeyed mine since taking over. The
villacs
are the real enemies, the sly bastards who manipulated us.

I lever the lid of the coffin back into place. I feel foolish for coming. Conchita’s message must have had some other meaning. This has been a
waste of time. Dead men can’t see. As soon as Sines lets me out, I’ll high-tail it back to Party Central and refocus. There must be…

A groaning sound stops the thought dead. I spin toward the door but it’s stationary. The sound isn’t coming from outside but from in here.

Backing up against a wall, I stare at the coffin. I expect the lid to creak open, the way it would in a horror film, and the corpse of The Cardinal to stumble out. But that doesn’t happen. Instead the entire coffin slides off the marble slab. At first I think it’s magic, but then I spot a thin metal shelf supporting it and I realize this is technology at work, not the supernatural.

The coffin comes to a halt. Taking a couple of steps closer, I see that the marble slab is hollow. There are steps set within. As I stare into darkness, pondering this arcane twist, a head appears—someone’s coming up. My throat tightens and I search for a weapon, but I gave up carrying guns and knives many years ago. No call for them when you’re immortal.

Fighting the urge to lurch away from the slab and hammer on the door, I stand my ground, facing up to whatever horror awaits. As the figure mounts the steps, I realize first that it’s a woman, tall, dark skin, long black hair. Next I notice that she’s naked. As that sinks in, the even more incredible truth of her identity strikes me.

“Ama?” I wheeze. Her head lifts and her eyes settle on mine, but that’s her only response. “Ama,” I moan, taking a staggering step toward her. Ama Situwa was the love of my life, the woman The Cardinal created for me. She could have been Eve to my Adam, for a few decades at least, but I sacrificed her. Part of the price I paid when agreeing to my demonic deal.

Ama puts a finger to her lips. Mouths the sound, “Shhh.” I stop and stare. I want to cry but I’ve forgotten how. She lowers her hand, then stretches it out, offering it to me. I shake my head, afraid. She cups her fingers and beckons, smiling reassuringly. Trembling, scared of what will happen if I take her hand, terrified of what will happen if I don’t, I slide my fingers into hers. She squeezes, then turns and starts back down the
stairs. I hesitate at the top—it’s dark down there, I can’t see the bottom—but she squeezes my hand again and nods to say it’s safe. I shouldn’t go—this is insane, placing my life in the hands of a naked ghost—but I can’t help myself. Reason has fled. The spirits of the past have claimed me as their own.

Holding on to Ama, I follow her down the stairs into the unknown, only dimly aware of the coffin sliding back into place overhead, plunging us into total, all-encompassing darkness.

M
y father was a demon. He killed thousands of people, wicked and just, innocent and guilty—it made no difference to him. Paucar Wami was tall, black as the devil’s heart, bald, with uncanny green eyes and colorful tattooed snakes running the gamut of both cheeks, meeting just beneath his lower lip. He butchered for pleasure and gain. He lived solely to destroy. Ten years ago he passed from the face of this Earth and his unique strain of evil passed with him.

Between murders, Wami fathered a crop of children. I was the firstborn. I’ve spent the past decade trying to revive my father’s twisted legacy. I’ve become his living ghost. I’m an assassin’s shade, death to all who cross me.

My name is Al Jeery.

Call me Paucar Wami.

Friday, 23:00. I’ve been shadowing Basil Collinson since early evening. If the pimp sticks to his schedule, he should roll out of the Madam Luck casino shortly after midnight and head for a club. That’s when he dies.

Basil’s a poor gambler but he never drops more than a thousand in a single sitting. He’s careful that way. Likes to maintain control of his life. Dresses in the same smart suit every day. Takes care of his wife and kids, hides the true nature of his business from them. Cuts a slice of his profits
to all the right people. On drinking terms with influential police officers and lawyers. Even pays his taxes in full and on time.

Basil’s only weakness is his violent appetite for the women who work for him. He has between fifteen and twenty ladies on the books at any given time, and though he sees that they’re fairly paid, every now and then he takes one off for a weekend and goes to work on her. He drops the façade, hits the bottle and subjects his victim to a torrent of abuse and torment. Mostly they limp away nursing bruises and cuts, but occasionally he’ll put one in the hospital, and at least twice that I know of, the damage has been fatal.