The Wind City (16 page)

And so it had gone.

And now here Saint was, grinning at him across the table all self-satisfied and cocky because he’d gotten what he wanted, again, without even trying. Steffan wasn’t in the best of moods already – his research into the deaths had gotten nowhere, as he should’ve predicted. Like he was any good at anything in the
real
world.
Stick to theoretical things, to facts and figures
, he chided himself, tart,
that’s what you’re good at
. And on top of that here was Saint, his almost-friend, Saint who just did whatever the hell he wanted, and it didn’t matter what he did because there weren’t any hopes riding on him, and Steffan was jealous of that, sometimes.
Saint’s
parents never pressured him into –

He stopped himself there. Sometimes Steff wasn’t as good a person as he’d like to be – he could be snobbish, he knew, superior. And he got too tied up in his work sometimes. But even at his worst, he wouldn’t wish Saint’s family on anyone. He resolved to be polite, no matter how much Saint tried him.

“So, hey,” Saint said, “if you hypothetically had a phobia of beautiful elven psychopaths that sometimes wear suits for some reason and this phobia was getting in the way of your relationship with a co-worker, what would you do about it?”

“What the actual fuck,” Steffan said.

“I mean, not
relationship
relationship. I’m strictly professional.”

Steffan pinched his nose. “Not really what I was asking about, Saint. When you actually showed up I thought you might’ve dropped this… ” He made a frustrated gesture. Normally Saint had enough respect for him to make his lies interesting, at the very least. He struggled for words. “… stupidness!”

The sandwich arrived, and Saint picked at it. “Mm,” he said, drawing out the word like a deliberation. “… Nah. Still being stupid. Awful sorry if it offends your delicate sensibilities, you southern lady you.” He seemed agitated, twitchy. He cupped a cigarette in his hand and lit it in a motion that Steffan couldn’t quite make out.

“I thought you quit,” Steffan said.

“I thought your
face
,” Saint griped back at him, and he blew smoke at him, grinning when Steff coughed. “Relax, pet.
You’re
not the one with the deadly elf problem.”

“I’m also not the one with the, the addiction problem,” Steffan said irritably, and Saint raised an eyebrow at him.

“How many cups of coffee have you had today exactly?” he said, looking amused, and Steff, who had been about to take a sip from his cup, sat upright and pushed it away. “Cheers,” Saint added, and he grabbed the tepid espresso and drained it.

Steffan tried to glare but found himself smiling a little instead. It was just such a Saint thing to do. He’d missed him.

Saint set the cup down and lifted the top off his sandwich, then gingerly let it fall again. Still staring at the bread, he said, “I’m not joking.”

“That would certainly be a first,” Steffan said.

“No, I. Seriously.” Saint ran a hand through his hair. “I’m in a bit of a bad spot. I wanted to talk to you. Honest.” He looked tired. Weird, considering how he was always boasting about his high-cost enviable dashing lifestyle, and how great it was, and how very thoroughly he didn’t need any friends or any help or anything at all.

Steffan closed his laptop. “Fine. Talk.”

Saint lit up, went from slumping and exhausted to sitting up with – well, if you could somehow swagger while being seated, that was what he did. “See, me and this colleague, I think he’s pushing me a little hard,” he said, “asking too much, kind of? He’s not… being very respectful about the aforementioned phobia thing. And, wow, I don’t have to tell you how odd it is for me to be indecisive on anything, I normally go in all hands blazing –”

“All
hands
?”

Saint grinned that insufferable grin of his. “Figure of speech,” he said airily.

Steffan groaned. Saint laughed.

Why did he
always
have to be like this, couldn’t he just open up and tell him the
truth
for once –

Steff’s thoughts went, unwillingly, to the night Saint showed up at his door soaked from the rain and trying to hide his bruises, one time when they were younger. The memory of it still made his guts twist. He’d done his best to clean Saint up and get some food into him, and he’d made gallons of tea, and they had sat and watched TV – but that was nothing, that was less than nothing, all he could do was give him food and a safe atmosphere when Saint needed
help
. It was stupid, selfish, to make this about him instead of Saint, but every time Saint flinched away or lied or told him he was fine it
hurt
. It hurt more than Steff would’ve believed possible.

Saint was a tangled knot of complications, and Steffan was sick of doing the best he could but never being enough.

He must’ve shown some of those thoughts on his face, because Saint leaned forward again. “Are you sure I’m not being a trouble?” he asked, resting his head on one hand and widening his eyes. “You look a little stressed. And old, and over-caffeinated. And boring.”

Steffan sighed. “It’s no trouble,” he said. It was, but that wasn’t Saint’s fault. And it wasn’t Saint’s fault that Steff didn’t know how to help, either, and it didn’t mean he was allowed to stop trying. “I… I have to.”
Someone has to. God knows you need it
. But he couldn’t exactly say that. “I’m – doing my duty as a friend.”

The swagger vanished, just like that.

“Doing your
duty
,” Saint repeated. His head sagged forward, actually needing the support of his hand now.

Steffan flushed. “That’s – I didn’t mean it like that, Saint, you know I didn’t, I meant that, that even when it’s hard it’s… I don’t
mind
, honestly, I don’t.” Saint was just staring at him. Steffan swallowed and changed the subject. “Tell me about your workmate? Perhaps you and them can reach a compromise. I’d love to help.”

“Uh, wow. No, I’d rather stick with this, this fascinating vein of conversational gold we just located,” Saint said. He leaned back. Blinked. “
Have
to. Huh. Would you look at that. Well.” He shook his head as if to clear it, then stood up. “I think that’s us then.”

“What? No. No! Stop being dramatic. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I could no sooner stop being dramatic than I could cease to
breathe
,” Saint declared, flinging out his arms.

“That’s self-proving,” Steff pointed out, then was annoyed at himself. What a pointless thing to say. Stumbling over his words again. He was no help at all. “So, your… your beautiful elf people, are they –”

“No, no, shut your goddamn mouth,” Saint said, holding up a hand to forestall him, and when Steffan gaped in indignation – more at how Saint said it all
gallant
than the actual words – Saint added, “By all means, I insist. I won’t bother you any more.”

“Ha, is that a promise?” Steffan said, trying to grin.

Saint met his eyes squarely. “Yeah.”

The grin wasn’t very successful, in the face of that.

“I do so hate being any sort of annoyance or burden, is all,” Saint continued, and Steffan had to laugh at that. Saint smiled along at the joke. “Anyway, forget about the patupaiarehe,” he said. “I’d rather encounter one of them at the moment than have another second of conversation with you. I actually would prefer for my brain to be scooped out by spoons and then boiled with dry potatoes and served at school camp than put up with this any longer.”

Steffan stared at him.

“
Frightfully
sorry, pet,” Saint said, not sounding sorry at all, and he left in a swirl of coat.

“Oh, come on!” Steffan yelled after him, but Saint was already gone. “… I’m sorry,” Steff added, to the empty space where Saint wasn’t.

The sandwich wilted on its plate.

Steffan tried to study after that, but after a while he set his laptop aside with a tight, irritated sigh. It was time to face the facts; quantum mechanics just didn’t grab him like it used to. He supposed he could blame Saint for distracting him from it, this time, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t already distracted himself, earlier, with that stupid dead-end research into the unrelated deaths and so on. His ennui wasn’t
Saint’s
fault. Maybe Steff should call him and apologise – but calling Saint was trying at the best of times, and he couldn’t quite work up the energy. Not right now.

Dwelling on the wasted research wasn’t exactly productive, but he couldn’t help it; it had just been such a
waste
, of time and energy. He’d trawled through archived newspapers on Papers Past for a good four hours, and found plenty of articles, certainly, but nothing that tied things together or even gave him the slightest idea of where to look next. Maybe there
wasn’t
anywhere to look next. It was probably nothing, just a stupid hunch. Why would those things be connected, anyway? People in comas, drained of blood, it was ridiculous, like some absurd fairy tale –

Wait.

Fairies. Fae. What was that thing Saint had said?
Anyway, forget about the patupaiarehe
… Beautiful elven psychopaths. Hm.

Steff ordered more coffee, flipped open his laptop and researched a little. And sure enough things started turning up. He compiled notes, mainly of the traits that all the stories agreed on. Reading up on patupaiarehe quickly led to other beings as well, tipua and hakuturi and maero and, more interestingly, ponaturi – interesting because by the look of things, whoever had been murdering people was recreating these old stories. The people who had been drowned, that was clearly reminiscent of ponaturi. The blood-drainings and people falling into comas – that reflected what patupaiarehe were said to have done. Perhaps he could put together a comprehensive folder, cite it as best he could under the circumstances, and then report his findings to the police? Even if he didn’t, you could never have too much knowledge.

And it looked like he owed Saint an apology, and maybe some thanks. Well. He could always just text him later, once Saint had cooled down. This, at the moment, was a lot more interesting, not to mention a great deal easier to figure out than Saint ever would be.

He put his instinctive disbelief on hold, and researched. He was a student of quantum mechanics, after all. It was what he did best.

After a while, though, he found his leg twitching again, jittery, full of energy and nowhere to expend it sitting in a café. He packed his things and got up.

There was a busker somewhere outside playing saxophone, smooth and smoky, and the sound of it helped to ease Steff’s troubled mind. He fumbled change out of his wallet as he was paying for the coffees and Saint’s sandwich, and when he went outside he dropped a coin in the busker’s hat.

The man nodded up at him and continued playing. He was dressed in dark jeans, a brownish waistcoat open over his rather shabby shirt. Odd that he even had a hat; he had a saxophone where his head should have been, so he probably didn’t need one.

Steffan nodded back and wandered on.

If someone was drowning people in imitation of obscure traditional Māori sea monsters, then perhaps there would be some sign of it by the waterfront, perhaps the killer or killers would be based there; he could ask questions of the business owners …No, he’d just make a nuisance of himself. But there was no harm in doing a little looking around, surely. He made his way down Cuba Street, barely paying attention to his surroundings, his mind a whirl.

It was colder by the ocean, and Steffan, lacking coat or jacket, shivered. He wandered the long stretch of pavement until even he had to admit that this was pointless, that there was no use to this, what exactly did he even expect to find –

A noose slipped around his neck and he was yanked into the shadow of a looming warehouse, out of sight.

“Someone’s been poking his nose in!” a voice sand, “someone’s like to get himself snapped up!”

He scrabbled at his throat, choking; the cord was – rough, his brain supplied, something fibrous to judge by how it cut into his neck. He fell to his knees and breathed frantically and looked at his assailant.

A girl, much smaller than him, wearing some kind of costume: her skin was blue and she was shaped oddly, her features exaggerated, cheeks too sunken and teeth too sharp. Strange. He hadn’t expected the gang or whoever it was – maybe the girl on her own? – to actually wear costumes. Maybe they had cult affiliations.

The girl ran her tongue across her teeth, taking him in. “Not much meat on you, is there?” she said, and she laughed like a hyena. “There’s enough! There’s enough! Meat enough, Māripi’s gonna eat her full,” and then she said something in a slippery language he didn’t recognise.

“I’m sorry,” he said, staring up at her. His mind was chanting
fool fool fool
and taking in every single aspect of the situation, both at once. “There’s, I have money in my wallet, you’re welcome to, I, it’s not much but –”

She tugged at the rope, and the noose tightened again. It was strange how quickly choking became unbearable, he thought distantly; how it felt like your face was swelling so fast with all the blood rushing to it that it might burst. He didn’t know what was going on, and that was almost worse.