Let me put it this way, to paraphrase Tom Lehrer, the werewolves hate the vampires, the vampires hate the brujas and everyone hates a golem.
When a vampire hates or a werewolf hates . . . well, things tend to get violent. The American frontier was already a bloody and brutal place. The rivalries and feuds between the various supernatural factions had begun to make it noticeably bloodier.
Then someone got the bright idea to create the Council. Supposedly the Council exists to mediate between the different groups that live here. The idea is that if they’re not all fighting each other, they’ll be less noticeable to the general population, which is generally speaking a good thing for the continued health and well-being of my clientele. Remember the Salem witch trials? Nobody wanted a repeat of that kind of crap.
“Do you honestly think those things have a representative on the Council?” Aldo asked me, looking as if he were talking to a not particularly cute child. “It’d be like sending a rabid dog to a mediation. It simply wouldn’t work.”
“Isn’t there somebody who can speak for them? Someone, I don’t know, Chinese?” I asked.
This time Alex snorted a little. “It’s not exactly like a United Nations over there.”
I was not privy to the makeup of the Council or how representatives are chosen. So I didn’t have much to say to that. “There has to be somebody to speak for them.”
Aldo turned away from me. “I’ll bring it up at the next Council meeting. I doubt anyone will be interested.”
I looked over at Alex, who said nothing. His clenched jaw was communicative enough.
Aldo laughed. “From what Melina’s saying, it sounds like someone’s going after gangs. Perhaps we should give them a medal. Other than that, I see no reason for me to do anything about some blood-sucking zombies ripping limbs off soulless drug pushers.”
I felt like I was hearing an echo of Paul’s words last night. It has nothing to do with the pack, so it’s not the pack’s problem. It has nothing to do with the Council, so they would do nothing as well. It’s rare that werewolves and vampires agree on anything. Perhaps I should have been grateful for this moment of peace between two groups who often made the supernatural world very uncomfortable with their tensions. There’s a lot more out there than werewolves and vampires, but they represent two very large and powerful groups and can make life very unpleasant for everyone else when they’re not getting along.
“Now, if that’s all?” Aldo tilted his head to one side and smiled.
Alex stared at him for a few moments and then dropped his eyes to the ground. “That’s all, Aldo. At least, for now. I doubt this is finished.”
“Oh, it’s finished all right,” Aldo said, and then curtly added, “Good night,” before closing the door.
I looked over at Alex, whose gaze was still riveted on his shoes. Finally, he took a deep breath and straightened. “Come on, Melina. I’ll take you home. You’ll be able to get your beauty rest.”
He actually looked sad. I wondered if he was worried about possibly facing some bigger dragons in the near future.
ALEX WAS AS GOOD AS HIS WORD AND I WAS TUCKED INTO BED by two A.M. I’m not sure the bed had ever felt so deliciously flat and undemanding. No. It was more than undemanding. It was supportive. I’m not sure, but I think I might actually want to date my bed. Sadly, it doesn’t seem to have much competition these days.
Which is not to say that Alex didn’t make one last stab when he dropped me off, but I could tell it was halfhearted at best. He seemed oddly deflated by his encounter with Aldo. I wasn’t sure whether it was because he truly was worried about limbless gangbangers or because he simply didn’t like Aldo to get the best of him. Or some vampirish combination of the above. Whatever. If the pack didn’t think they had to do anything about it and the Seethe didn’t think they did either, why should a poor Messenger worry her pretty little head about it? Especially when it was being so lovingly cradled by her pillow.
7
I STARED AT THE HEADLINE EMBLAZONED ACROSS THE SUNDAY issue of the
Sacramento Bee
: “Gang Warfare Erupts.”
I’d been looking forward to the Sunday sudoku and instead got blindsided by the front page’s forty-eight-point type proclaiming Sacramento a war zone between the Norteños and the Black Dragons.
“What is it?” Norah asked from across the table. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Usually it makes me laugh when Norah says that. She’s been with me when I’ve seen ghosts and hasn’t ever noticed. Once, I even watched her walk right through the faded spirit of the little old man who shows up now and then in the garden of the house two doors down. She was completely oblivious. This time, however, I knew what she meant. I felt as if all the blood had run out of my face.
Apparently, while I’d been practically mainlining the scent of Ted Goodnight in Frank Liu’s backyard, the Norteños had decided to commit what the public information officer of the Sacramento Police Department called a retaliatory strike for recent attacks—which had to refer to the dudes in the black Lincoln Navigators and the
kiang shi
. The Norteños had struck deep in Black Dragon territory, mowing down at least four young Asian men and hitting two innocent bystanders with stray bullets.
“This has to stop,” I said to Norah.
She took the paper from me and scanned the story. “It’s a flare-up. They’ll make it settle down. You know these things run in cycles.”
She was right. They did seem to run in cycles. Gang activity would get out of hand. The police would crack down. Things would settle down for a bit, then something would make it flare up again. The police would crack down again, and the whole thing would start over.
This, however, wasn’t the normal cycle and I knew it. I knew damn well that the Black Dragons weren’t responsible for the attacks on the Norteños. I wasn’t precisely sure who the men in the black SUVs were, but I knew they weren’t from a typical Sacramento gang, and whatever the story was behind the
kiang shi
, they certainly weren’t typical gang weapons.
Still, I suppose the Norteños had to hit back somewhere. The black SUV guys were clearly Asian. They must have decided to pick one of the more active Sacramento Asian gangs and hit ’em hard. At least they’d be sending a message.
The problem was, the message hadn’t gone to anyone who had earned it. The Black Dragons weren’t going to take what they would see as an unprovoked attack lying down. They would strike back, too. Pretty soon, the entire south section of the city would be unsafe. The blood of rash and foolish young men would flow in the streets. How many innocent bystanders would be lying bleeding beside them? Even one was too many, and it wasn’t likely to stop there.
Whoever had attacked the Norteños using the
kiang shi
had to know that the violence was going to snowball. Had they maybe planned it that way all along?
Something big was going on and no one seemed to care. I tried not to care either. Unfortunately, I kept having a mental replay of the Chinese vampires ripping the gangbangers apart and feasting on their flesh.
It’s hard not to care about that.
BY EIGHT THIRTY P. M. ON SUNDAY NIGHT, I WAS BACK OUTSIDE the Bok Kai Temple on I Street. The sun would set by nine. If the dudes in the black Navigators were going to take the
kiang shi
on another outing into gang territory, they’d do it by nine thirty. I was hoping I could follow them, figure out a little more about what was going on and still make it to work by eleven when my shift started.
I slunk low in the Buick and watched the front door. The hand-lettered sign about the building being closed for renovations still hung there. I wished I could tell whether or not the door was locked, but I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing me trying it. I’d made myself conspicuous enough already, thank you very much. Instead, I left the Buick on the street, walked down the block and cut back through the alley that ran behind the buildings on I Street. The Navigators had gone behind the building to load the
kiang shi
on Friday night. I figured there must be some sort of loading-dock entrance back there—an entrance that was likely to be as discrete and accessible for me as it had been for them.
The alley was already in shadow. The garbage in the Dumpsters that lined its length had spent the day baking in the sun, however, and the musky scent of the river nearby was overpowered by the smell of rotting garbage. I breathed shallowly through my mouth. It didn’t help much.
The Dumpster behind the Bok Kai Temple was nearly empty. Whatever was going on in the temple didn’t create a lot of garbage, apparently. I was grateful for that since the best way to get to the partially opened, second-floor window that I could see from the alley involved climbing onto the Dumpster and then making a short ascent up.
I was also grateful that I’d decided to show up wearing caprilength sweats and a tank top and had left the little flowered skirt and the twinset that I planned on wearing to work in a bag on the backseat of the Buick. Wall work in a skirt is just so unladylike. Plus, it always makes me feel good about myself when I’ve dressed appropriately. It happens so rarely.
I lowered the Dumpster’s lid as quietly as possible, then stood with my back to the Dumpster, grasped the rail and did a reverse somersault onto it. The maneuver looks harder than it is, not that anyone was looking. Or, at least, I hoped they weren’t. I picked my way across the Dumpster to the wall, crouched low and launched myself at the window, catching it by its lower sill. I pulled myself up onto my elbows, the rough concrete scraping my forearms.
The window squeaked as I pushed it the rest of the way open and shimmied through. I dropped to the floor in a crouch, looking for something to hide behind in case someone came to investigate the noise. I was in an office of some kind. There was a battered metal desk that had clearly seen better days, a wheeled chair and a few metal filing cabinets. There weren’t many choices for hiding places. I slid between the filing cabinet and the wall and hoped that if someone came, they wouldn’t come all the way into the room.
I tried to slow my quickened breath as I listened for anyone’s approach. It was only a few seconds before I heard soft footsteps in the hall. The door creaked open. I shut my eyes and crossed my fingers. If whoever it was stayed in the doorway, I’d be okay.
If they didn’t . . . well, it’d be a toss-up as to who was going to end up okay and who wasn’t. Now that I knew what to expect, I was pretty sure I’d know how to deal with the tai chi moves. But I didn’t want to lay out whoever was there; I was much more interested in finding out what they were up to than in beating the crap out of them. I am in many ways much more of a lover than a fighter. Still, if it came down to a choice, I was definitely going to choose me even if that meant fighting.
I could hear whoever it was in the doorway breathing. I smelled a faint scent of oranges and incense. I willed my body into stillness, finding the core of quiet deep within myself. I don’t know how long I was there, but I heard the door creak shut again and the footsteps receded down the hallway.
I let out the breath I’d been holding.
I crept out of the office, careful to keep the door from making any noise that would bring back whoever was patrolling the place. Because that’s what they were doing: patrolling. Now that I was inside, I could hear the footsteps as they passed back and forth in the space below. Each step made a faint slapping sound. Whoever was down there was barefoot and their feet were a little bit sweaty. I thought of the terrified young priest I’d encountered on Friday.
The doorway of the office opened onto a short hallway. I crept along it, pressed to the wall, as if that would stop anyone from seeing me if they came down the hallway. Somehow, it made me feel better to have the wall at my back. I tried to assure myself that it was a tactical maneuver. I was making sure no one could sneak up behind me. It had nothing to do with the fact that whatever was in the main hall below me was making the hair on my neck rise up and my flesh vibrate with the intensity of Magic Fingers massage on a motel bed.
I slid as silently as I knew how down the hall. The smell of the river seemed to grow with every step. The sense of something old and tinged with a malignant magic grew with it. I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep creeping toward where the hallway opened onto the sanctuary.
It wasn’t so much that I was scared of whatever was in the sanctuary. At least, not really scared. There are repercussions if you hurt a Messenger. It’s one of the few rules governing the different groups that make up the Council. I’m supposed to be protected.
I like that part of my job.
Unfortunately, following rules requires a being to be somewhat sentient. Whatever those things were that came out of the temple on Friday night, I kind of doubted they were sentient at all, let alone sentient enough to be aware of the rules protecting Messengers. I especially doubted that the guys in the black Navigators knew about the rules. They looked like the kind of guys who were used to making their own rules. They also looked like the kind of guys for whom protecting little white girls from harm was not a high priority.
I was to the end of the hall now. A wash of light from the high-ceiling sanctuary splashed at my feet. I skirted around it, sticking to the shadows, and slipped into the visitor’s gallery that overlooked the main sanctuary. Down below me, the same priest who had shooed me away on Friday night stood nervously in the middle of the torn-apart space. I settled into an alcove that put me into even deeper shadow and waited.
