Undead to the World (20 page)

There are three things wrong with that plan. First, if this goes on for any length
of time there won’t be a bar left; second, it’s the
smart
thing to do. My reputation would suffer.

Third, Tanaka’s in the middle of it.

I shouldn’t care. He treated me badly. He’s the sort of ex who leaves you with a general
mistrust of the opposite gender, and I don’t owe him a damn thing.

Except I do.

I have to. Ahaseurus wouldn’t have stuck him in here, wouldn’t have made him part
of the grand design, unless he meant something to me. Something that the wizard could
twist and distort, turn into something ugly. Which means, by simple and brutal logic,
that the jerk I used to date and now hate is more than likely a decent, honorable
guy who I might have even been close to.

“Let’s get in there and help,” I snap.

“Sure. Which side?”

I demonstrate, vaulting over the bar and kicking a road worker in the belly. He doubles
over, and I straighten him up with a knee to the face.

“Oh,” Charlie says, and then he’s right there beside me.

I could use the gun, I guess. Fire a few rounds into the ceiling, shout for everyone
to stop. But I don’t think that would work—both sides are in the grip of something
elemental, the ferocity of a barroom brawl amplified by out of control magic. I can
feel it myself: I don’t want to shoot anyone, I want to
hit
them. Hard. Many, many times.

So that’s what we go with.

The road crew obviously aren’t human, but they’re not pires or thropes, either. Some
kind of demon is my guess, something Ahaseurus was using as muscle. He’s employed
both lems and zombies in the past, so demons shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

But they don’t belong here, in the town itself. I know it, and so do the four neo-thropes
fighting alongside me. These mooks are just here to have a little fun while the boss
isn’t looking.

I smash a chair over one guy’s head. It leaves me holding two chair legs, one in each
hand, which suits me just fine. I’m trained to fight with batons. I proceed to demonstrate
on anyone unlucky enough to be within six feet of me.

None of the townies have gone thrope. That means none of them have experienced their
first full moon yet, and thus none of them are the alpha. At least I’ve figured that
much out.

And then one of the demons decides to kick it up a notch. He’s got one of those
SLOW
signs with him, the kind you usually see in the hands of a blonde in sunglasses and
a hard hat—I read somewhere people are more likely to respond to a blonde directing
traffic—and he starts swinging it like a club. Not much of a weapon, really, just
a lightweight piece of sheet metal on a stick. He smacks Tanaka in the head with it,
and about all that accomplishes is getting his attention.

The demon’s grin gets wider. He turns the sign edgewise for the backswing, and aims
a few inches lower. The strike is almost too fast to see.

There aren’t many sure ways to kill a thrope or a pire, but decapitation is one of
them.

In the frozen instant before his body slumps to the ground beside his head, I remember
who Tanaka really was and what he meant to me. It’s no coincidence—it’s one of the
spells woven into the fabric of this place, doing what it was designed to do. Make
me hurt.

Kamakura Tanaka. Proud member of the last samurai clan in the world. Security liaison
between the NSA and the Nipponese Shinto Investigative Branch, until he was forced
to choose between his country and me. My first supernatural lover. An honorable man
who betrayed his own beliefs, and never forgave himself.

I’m supposed to blame myself. And maybe, if the spell were working properly, I would—but
it’s not, and I don’t. I know that’s not really Tanaka, just someone with a head full
of implanted memories. Probably not even real memories, either; the fact that Tanaka’s
already dead is a little detail I doubt I’m supposed to recall. Or maybe I’m supposed
to believe this is some sort of second chance, that he’s not
really
dead—but whoops, now he is.

The body hits the floor.

You’d think that somebody getting their head chopped off in the middle of a bar fight
might have enough shock value to bring the whole thing to a halt, but no such luck.
People continue to curse, punch, kick, and throw things. I’ve laid out more than a
few demonic road workers, and Charlie seems to be doing fine with just his fists.
And feet. And knees. And elbows. And anything else that comes to hand.

What does stop the melee is the roar of a gun.

Everybody freezes and looks toward the door. Sheriff Stoker and Deputy Silver stand
there, Stoker with a double-gauge to his shoulder and Silver with a drawn pistol.

“That’s enough,” Stoker growls. “This is
my
town. Any of you think you’re tough enough to take a load of buckshot to the chest?”

Apparently these demons aren’t as invulnerable to harm as some supernaturals, because
they all lower their fists or release whomever they’re holding. The townies still
look mad enough to eat razors and crap barbed wire, but they back off, too.

“They killed Tanaka!” the mayor says.

“Yeah?” Stoker replies. “Where’s the body?”

I look down at the floor. Sure enough, both the head and the rest of the corpse is
gone. There isn’t even any blood.

Mayor Leo glowers at him, but doesn’t reply.

“R and R is over,” Stoker says, addressing the road workers. “I think you all have
a better place to be, don’t you?”

One of them steps forward with a slight smile on his face. “Sure. Okay. Thanks for
the dance.”

Without a word or a grumble, they grab their hard hats and file out the door in a
straight line. Their faces all wear that identical slight smile, which is about as
eerie as it sounds.

“The march of the wooden soldiers,” Charlie murmurs behind me.

“Something tells me these guys aren’t nearly as flammable, though,” I murmur back.

Mayor Leo, realizing how absurd his claim is with no proof to back it up, strides
up to Stoker and glares at him. “You’re just going to let them go?”

“I’ve got more important things on my plate than bar fights and wild accusations.
They’ll go back where they belong, and so will you. Understand?”

Something passes between them. “Yes,” Leo snarls. “And I hope you do, too.”

He stomps out, Varney and Prince behind him.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here, Valchek?” Stoker says.

“Your surprise gland isn’t responding to the medication?”

He sighs. “You going to tell me you saw a murder, too?”

“Not me. I was busy dancing.”

“Uh-huh. Charlie, you might want to think about finding a different dance partner.”

“I like this one just fine, thanks,” Charlie says flatly.

“Well, I’m getting tired of the whole do-si-do,” Stoker says. “Because every time
I hear the music start up, guess who’s first out on the floor. One Miss Jace Valchek.”

“That’s because it’s all about
me,
Sheriff. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” Still charged up with adrenaline, I spit
the words at him—then realize I’ve gone too far. He stares at me with a new expression
on his face as a realization of his own hits him. If, as Cassiar claims, Stoker’s
the new leader of the cult, then he knows exactly why I’m at the center of all his
problems. But until this minute, he didn’t know
I
know, too. Good job, Jace.

“What I’ve figured out,” Stoker says, “is that maybe you need to stop roaming all
over town looking for trouble.”

“I’ve looked into having it delivered, but I can’t find a rate I like—”

“Maybe a nice cell would firm up the decision-making process.”

“I doubt that,” I say carefully. “Trouble stalks me like an old boyfriend with OCD
issues and a pair of night-vision goggles. You can lock me up, sure—but that just
means trouble will have to go through
you
to get to
me.
Right?”

He thinks about it. I don’t know how informed he is as to Ahaseurus’s plans, but he
has to know I’m basically cursed. Cursed in such a way that the collateral damage
surrounding my immediate presence can get pretty lethal. Presumably he thinks he’s
protected against such things—the whole purpose of the cult is supposedly to summon
the Gallowsman so that he and his friends are happy and safe while others suffer—but
by now he knows something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Let’s take a little ride down to the station and discuss it,” he says finally.

“Is she under arrest?” Charlie asks. His voice is very calm, which sets off all sorts
of alarms in my head.

“Charlie, relax,” I say. “Sure, Sheriff. Can we turn on the lights and siren, too?
I love that.”

Stoker lowers his gun. “We’ll see.”

*   *   *

I can see Charlie’s vehicle through the back window of the police car, following us.
I hope he’s not planning anything stupid; he seems to have taken an instant and extreme
dislike to the sheriff. That’s not a good sign, but I don’t have the chance to question
him about it.

Sheriff Stoker doesn’t have the chance to question me, either. We’re only halfway
to the station house when his radio crackles and the dispatcher tells him he’s needed
at the bed and breakfast. Immediately.

“What’s going on?” I ask from the back seat.

“Don’t know yet,” he says tersely. “But at least for once
you’re
not involved.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think I know why Cassiar hasn’t
been answering my calls.

We pull up outside the B & B. Stoker gets out but leaves me locked in the back. Deputy
Silver parks behind us, and Charlie behind him. Silver follows Stoker into the house,
and Charlie strolls up to the sheriff’s vehicle.

“What’s happening?” Charlie asks.

“Let me out and I’ll tell you.” He opens my door. “Stoker got a radio call to come
here. That’s all I know.”

Charlie looks grim. “Look, about Stoker—”

Which is when we hear a hoarse scream.

We bolt for the house. Through the door, up the stairs, straight for Cassiar’s room.
Deputy Silver’s standing at the top of the stairs, holding back Silas Bloom, who’s
pale and shaking and saying, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I realize it must
have been him who screamed.

I can see the interior of Cassiar’s room through the open doorway. There’s blood—a
lot
of blood. And what’s barely recognizable as a human form lying on the bed.

But it’s not Cassiar. It’s Therese Isamu, the wife of the pire I killed.

THIRTEEN

Therese Isamu. Real name Teresa, real identity the curator of the Human Achievement
Museum. The sight of her corpse floods my mind with memories, followed closely by
a surge of grief.
Get ahold of yourself. This isn’t really her.

No, it isn’t. This is the woman who greets me at the beginning of every shift with
a friendly smile, who gives me meals on the house, who loves dirty jokes. This is—was—my
friend.

“What’s going on here?” demands a voice from behind me.

I turn. David Cassiar stands on the steps below me, looking puzzled.

Oh, boy.

“That’s a very good question,” Sheriff Stoker says, stepping out into the hall and
pulling the door shut behind him. “Mr. Cassiar. You and I need to speak.”

“Certainly,” Cassiar says. “Would you care to step into my room, since you’ve been
inside already?”

“That, that, that,” says Silas. He looks like he’s about to cry. “That’s Therese,
isn’t it? I mean,
some
of her, right?”

Stoker frowns. “Quinn, take Silas downstairs and get a statement, all right? Jace,
downstairs and get back in the car—you and Charlie shouldn’t even be present. Mr.
Cassiar, I’m going to need to talk to you right here.”

Deputy Silver escorts Silas down the stairs, past me, Charlie, and Cassiar. I stay
right where I am, and Charlie doesn’t budge, either. He climbs a step and whispers
to me, though. “Jace. Let’s go. I need to talk to you.”

Maybe I should listen. Maybe I should do what I’m told. Maybe I should leave the bloody
crime scene to the professionals—oh, wait. That’s
me.

“Cassiar’s not your guy,” I say. “Give me two minutes with you in that room and I’ll
prove it. And I won’t touch a thing.”

“Excuse me?” Cassiar says. “Prove what, exactly? And who is Therese?”

Stoker stares at me. I meet his gaze levelly.

“
I
must be the crazy one,” Stoker mutters at last. “Mr. Cassiar, don’t go anywhere.
Valchek—you got two minutes.”

I nod, and wait for him to open the door again. He pulls out a pair of latex gloves
and puts them on first.

We go inside. He shuts the door again.

My first good look at the body triggers another cascade of memories, but this time
they’re more professional than personal; forensics training, mostly. I try to focus
on that.

“The amount of blood suggests she died from exsanguination,” I say. “There’s a blood
trail from the window, but it’s not extensive—probably from a minor injury as she
was dragged to the bed. Blood spatter indicates arterial spray from a neck wound;
her throat was torn open while she lay on her back.”

“Torn?” Stoker says.

I point. “Look at the edges of the wound. Ragged, not straight. A knife or other sharp
implement would have done a much cleaner job.”

“What else?”

“Major organs are missing: heart, liver, lungs. Flesh on her upper thighs. If this
body was found in a forest, it would be a clear case of animal predation.”

“But she isn’t out in the woods. She’s in a bedroom.”

“Yeah. Not
her
bedroom, either. That’s because she was brought here and killed—by someone who leaped
up to the second-floor window while carrying her. Probably by the throat so she couldn’t
scream; that would explain the blood trail, too.”