Through the Grey, page 28
“You told me Maria-Luz was loaded. That thirty thousand U.S. was a ‘drop in the bucket.’ And her money didn’t disappear until you were the sole executor. So you can un-bankrupt it the same way you broke it in the first place, Banda. And if you don’t, you won’t just have an angry ghost-dog on your ass. Because even you and your dead partner and your cheap secretary can’t possibly have blown that much money and certainly not without leaving a trail wide enough to march the Mexican Army down. So, you still have it. Which means, it can be returned to its rightful owners.”
He glowered.
“Iko,” I said.
He threw himself into his chair, saying, “No, no! Please.” He snatched his keyboard and began to type.
I came and stood over his shoulder, watching, while Iko growled non-stop. I looked the finished document over.
“That’s pretty good, Banda. I see you’ll still be able to feather your own nest, if less regally than before,” I added, glancing around his very nice office.
He muttered under his breath.
“Knock it off. You lost. Man-up and live with it.”
I hung around while he finished up, printed the forms, forged the signatures and got warily to his feet, eyeing the threatening little hound that dogged him unceasingly. Stifling his fury, he led me a long damned walk around downtown Mexico City to register the will and rescind the previous one.
Just outside of the courts building he stopped and turned back to me.
“Satisfied?”
“Mostly. But I know you can walk right back in there and pull that paperwork by saying you were coerced. But this is the thing you need to remember, Banda: the dog is forever. And once I’m gone, you’re not off the hook, because there is someone in Oaxaca who knows all about the will, the Dulcia, the dog, and all the rest.”
“Another of your ghosts?”
I laughed. “Oh no. A very real, solid, living person. I know you can find out who it is, but don’t be hasty. Remember I said there was a way to get rid of the dog?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
“That person knows how to set you free. But they won’t if you screw over the survivors of the Dulcia’s crew. And they can’t if you decide to kill them. That person—and powerful friends—will be keeping an eye on you. If that person dies, or if that person chooses not to help you, you and Iko get to spend this life together, and the next one and the next one, until there is no one left on the planet who remembers you, or the dog. Until the third death.”
He howled and threw himself at me. I just stepped back as Iko lunged.
I walked to the edge of the plaza and flagged a cab, ignoring the crowd that had gathered around the convulsing, screaming man on the ground. “Airport,” I said, turning on my cell phone.
I waited for an answer to my call and finally someone picked up. “Villaflores…”
“Hey, brat-boy. It’s the GP. It’s done.”
He laughed. “I’ll be on the next flight. Don’t want Iko to have to chew on that lawyer for too long.”
“Yeah, poor, faithful Iko.”
It’s rare for Justice and Vengeance to stand in the same place, but I thought this time, maybe they would. At least for a while. Until the will was executed and Banda’s embezzlements were restored to the proper owners. I hadn’t told Banda the truth, but that wasn’t bothering me too much. Whether he lived with Iko for a day or a lifetime, whether anyone remembered Banda or gave a damn in a year’s time or thirty, there was at least one thing that made me smile: it would be a long time before the third death of the little clay dog.
10
PEACOCK IN HELL
They’d fled into a cul-de-sac and the barrier built of eternally-tormented bodies of the damned moaned and writhed on three sides, rising toward the billowing fire of the sky for at least thirty meters. Peacock turned back with her knives at the ready, but the only thing still behind her was Lennie Redmayne. He was as dark-skinned and blood-covered as any hellhound, but he was the spoils, not the spoiler. She flicked smoking ichor off her baneforged blades and they gave off an eerie green glow before she returned them to their sheaths. Then she pushed against the cliff to test its stability.
The wall shrieked from its all its mouths as she touched it. Redmayne jumped and spun in panic, his thin dreadlocks swinging and spattering gore against the rampart and Peacock. “The bloody hell is that?” he croaked. His voice hadn’t recovered much yet—years of screaming in agony wasn’t repaired in an hour.
“Lost souls,” Peacock replied. “Just the garden variety, nothing fancy like you. Pile up like garbage here.” She ignored the blood now streaking her messily-cropped blond hair and disappearing into the surface of her red leather garments as she studied the barrier a moment. “We’ll have to climb.”
Redmayne goggled at her. “Climb…that? It’s undead bodies as far as the eye can see!”
Peacock shrugged. “It’ll be a little slippery, but there’re plenty of handholds. Not too bad, unless you put your hands or feet in their mouths—that could get messy.”
“Fucking hell,” Redmayne muttered.
“Where else did you think you were?”
“Smart arse.” He was healing quickly—his voice more south London gutter and less advanced case of throat cancer now.
Peacock grinned. “Sometimes. Up you go,” she added and crouched, offering Redmayne a leg up. He was a few years older and nearly a head taller, but he was thin and couldn’t weigh much in his current condition, though physics didn’t always function normally here.
He glanced between her and the writhing wall with his singed eyebrows raised in horrified bemusement. “Me?”
“Unless you’d rather be tail-end Charlie. We stay down here, those hellspawn will find us. I don’t see any other way out that doesn’t put us back where we came from. Frankly, I prefer the climb.”
“Bugger,” Redmayne grumbled and put his bare foot into her open hands.
His naked and savaged groin was uncomfortably close. Peacock closed her eyes and turned her head aside. “Don’t get any idea that I’m enjoying this,” she said as she hefted him upward with a mild grunt. “The view’s not spectacular.”
“Sod off.” He sank his hands and off-side foot into the wall’s bleeding flesh. “It in’t you who’s had his skin peeled off in strips every day for eternity.”
“Don’t be melodramatic—it’s only been eight years.”
“I’d tell you to go to Hell, but as we’re already here…”
She chuckled as she pulled the crimson hood over her light-colored hair and then scrambled up below him. “Think brutal thoughts, Redmayne—it keeps me going.”
“I am. I’m just thinking ’em out loud.”
Peacock rolled her eyes.
The damned shifted and howled as Peacock and Redmayne hauled themselves upward until the noise became background. They climbed for unmarked hours wrapped in the stink of blood and bones and brimstone. Their motions became mechanical—tug free of one hand- or foothold, sink into the next, and on and up, on and up…
Teeth bit into Peacock’s foot and she jerked loose to drive her boot heel into the dead thing’s head. As she glanced down, Redmayne’s foot flailed past her face. She jammed her toe into the massive scarp of bodies, anchored herself deep in unseen flesh and bones with one hand, and looked up. “Careful,” she said, grabbing his loose heel with her free hand. “You don’t want to fall now.” She drew in tight against the grotesque cliff face to keep her hold and didn’t flinch as teeth gnawed at her leathers.
“What? You think it would hurt? I’m fucking dead, mate.”
She held steady until he got his foot planted in the grim cliff again, then she pulled loose from the hungry dead and continued upward. “You know that there’s worse can happen. Only hellspawn and lords can die here—for fairly weird definitions of ‘die’ that is.”
“And you know this how, Miss Peacock?”
“I’ve been here before.”
“You’re dead?”
“At least mostly dead—pretty much the only way to get here.”
She remembered falling. She even remembered hitting the pavement, though some other details were fuzzy now.
Run…just run like hell. She’d bolted across the rooftop, vaulting the vents and dodging behind any available cover. They’re back there and gaining.
She’d glanced over her shoulder as she’d run and spotted the men behind her. Holy shit…that can’t be… The recollection was foggy, but the roof’s edge had been coming up and she’d burst desperately for it. She’d dug her toes into the graveled surface and pushed off…
But she’d stumbled, or the parapet was slippery and she’d launched wrong. She’d flailed and smashed against the next building with her full force. Pain bloomed in her chest and back. Then she’d slid down.
The giant terra cotta faces around the upper story had projected her out into empty air and she’d tumbled down without control. Only three stories, but enough to smash her like a ripe plum.
“Answers how you got here, but not why.”
Peacock shook off her memory. “What?” she asked.
Redmayne kept climbing, but called down, “I’m asking why you, in particular, are pulling my raggedy arse out of Hell.”
“Because Peter Fiore wanted you filched, which would take the best thief in the business. And that’s me.”
“You? Work for that bastard?”
“Whether I like it or not.”
“He heads up the Directorate of Occult Incursion Control now, yeah?”
“Thaumaturge-in-Chief,” Peacock replied. “But that begs the question, what does he want with you?”
Redmayne scoffed. “Couldn’t just call him Lord High Inquisitor could they? Right. So…I’m an artificer—was at any rate. Worked with him at DOIC back in the day.”
“Jesus…”
“Watch it.”
“Things must be worse than I thought if he’s fishing guys like you up from the pit.”
“Guy like me—singular. No more left, living or dead. That’s my ‘get out of Hell free’ card.”
“Free I can’t manage—Fiore owns me,” she added, bitterly. “I’m taking you straight to him as soon as we’re on the other side.”
“Well, that’s proper fucked, in’t it?”
“Proper as it comes.”
They climbed in silence for a while.
“Hey, you got any other name?”
“Peacock.”
“A first name, wisearse.”
“Why do you want to know?” she asked.
“As you’re half-dead and I’m all dead, and we’ve both worked with Peter Fiore, I was thinking we might have a few other things in common. I’ll trade you a bit of magical blackmail for it.”
“I already know your first name, so that’s not gonna wash.”
“Nah, this is better—secret about me no one but me mum knows. C’mon…it’s worth it. I promise.”
Peacock considered the offer for a couple of meters. “You ever call me by it, I’ll shove you back down this cliff and let you make your own way up.”
“Deal.”
“It’s Emily Anne.”
“Peacock suits you better. I’m Lennie.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Lennie Redmayne must be retrieved. I can’t send an army into the Nether to get him, so it’ll have to be done by stealth. Which is exactly the sort of job I hired you for.”
“One of which got me killed.” Peacock looked at him askance. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Peter Fiore was a big guy, bald and white-bearded, and he was good at intimidation, but Peacock wasn’t having any. Once you’ve been dead, your shit-taking limit drops way down—even with master magi.
Fiore narrowed his cold gray eyes at her. “Don’t blame me for your mistakes. I had to scrape you off a sidewalk, Peacock, so I don’t see where you have much cause to complain. I gave you that power—”
“I already had the veil talent. That’s why I’m the best thief in the country.”
“Best in the worlds, now,” Fiore added. “And that you do owe to me. Along with the fact that you’re up and breathing.”
Peacock snorted. “Breathing…in a manner of speaking.”
Fiore sneered. “Don’t get bitter, Emily. Would you rather I’d abandoned your broken body in that alley? I don’t leave my assets behind—even if I have to raise them from the dead.”
“Asset”…you smug bastard. Time to change the subject, before she gave into her continual urge to throat-punch him. “This Redmayne—he’s one of yours?”
“One of us,” Fiore corrected and glanced away. He wasn’t capable of embarrassment, so it might have been remorse. “And yes, he was.”
“I notice you didn’t raise him from the dead, oh, mighty necromancer.”
He cast a glare back at her. “I didn’t have that option.”
“What’s so important about him that I have to go to Hell to get him back?”
“That’s not something I can tell you. You know how this works. Just remember—there’s a reason he is where he is, and you can’t trust what the damned tell you.”
Peacock rolled her eyes—like we aren’t all damned. He was laying it on thick, but she couldn’t refuse—he was the only person who had the literal power of life and death over her and, bitching aside, she’d rather have the former than the latter, even if it required putting up with Fiore.
“All right, I’ll go get him. Where am I gonna find your tortured soul? Hell’s a big place.”
“Are you familiar with Dante?”
“Not really.”
“Good, because he only got close.”
“Is this secret what got you sent down here?” Peacock asked.
“No, I—Oi! I think we made it!” Redmayne kicked and disappeared over the cliff top as if he were swimming away into the cinder and flame of Hell’s sky. Then he choked back a scream.
Something nasty up there… Peacock hauled herself over the last of the damned and onto the upper surface. Her left palm sizzled on something hot, but there was no place else to put her hands. She sucked her breath through her teeth and endured the searing until she’d cleared the drop-off. Then she got to her feet and searched for Redmayne.
Beyond the crumbling edge the land was as black and gritty as an ancient stove top. Intense heat and the reek of burning iron rose from it. Peacock spotted Redmayne a few meters away. He whimpered in pain as he stumbled toward a line of low, gray mounds and scattered rubble nearby, leaving burned footprints on the dark surface. Peacock’s leathers and boots smoked as she jogged forward and grabbed him. She wasn’t strong enough to carry him, but she could haul one of his arms over her shoulders and get him to cooler ground quicker.
She dumped him on rotting stone in the shadowed slope of a chalky mound. Then she crouched near him and studied the area.
Redmayne crawled away from the iron plain’s heat and huddled on his backside, watching her. “Your cheek’s burnt,” he said.
Peacock held up her palms without turning her attention. “Yeah. These, too,” she said. “But not as bad as you. I think we’ve got a little breathing room now, so long as nothing flies by and spots us before we’re healed up enough to move.”
Satisfied with what she saw, Peacock sat back against the stones and turned to Redmayne. “How are you doing on that score?”
He glanced down at himself. “Major bits are coming along, but the outer layer’s still right tatty. Burns didn’t help.”
Peacock just nodded.
“You think we’re safe? I mean…don’t that outfit stand out a bit?”
“Have you noticed the color scheme around here? We blend right in. And red’s a short wavelength. The hellspawn don’t see in color, so it looks gray to them—same as most of this place. You’re dark to begin with and with those wounds you look like any other forsaken soul out here. Now, if a lord passes by, that could be a problem, but only for as long as it takes me to kill it.” She paused, thinking. “Actually, that might be a good thing—since lords aren’t ‘he’ or ‘she’ they just wear armor and draped cloth. You could use the cloth like a toga or something and save that ‘outer layer’ more damage.”
Redmayne laid back against the dusty scree and closed his eyes. “Well, there’s a silver lining to everything, in’t there?”
Peacock chuckled.
“Glad someone’s finding humor in this,” Redmayne grumbled.
“So far, you’re the most amusing thing I’ve ever stolen. And you owe me a secret.”
“Yeah, I do. First I gotta ask, you work for Fiore voluntarily?”
“No. It was supposed to be one contract. It turned into—something else.”
Redmayne looked her over and tugged thoughtfully on one of his locs. “So, the thing is…I got this funny talent—”
“Artificer.”
“Not just that one,” he said and held up two fingers.
“You’re a bi-talent? Well, that’s not so rare that I’d call it ‘funny’…” She trailed off as he shook his head.
“I’m a mimic,” he said. “It’s not something I want most people to know about. Jealous bunch, Talents. Don’t like other people borrowing their stuff.”
“How does it work? Clearly you don’t simply touch somebody and get their powers.”
“Yeah, it’s not that simple. There’s got to be blood contact, see, and I only get a copy of the other person’s magic for a little while. But it’s still like having it full-power, so I get the downsides just as hard. Magical Engineering doesn’t play well with some talents—’specially not death and destruction. It’s like coupling matter to anti-matter.”
“That would suck. But you haven’t picked up my talent and we’ve certainly passed blood contact by now.”
“It don’t work here. No one changes in Hell—trust me, I tried. You can cast an illusion—”
“But they don’t work on spawn or lords.”
“So you have talents.”
“Only the one—I can veil—but mostly I rely on my regular skills. Best in the business.”
