“I can’t make any promises right now. I’m on a long-term assignment, and there’s a very nasty Hellion around that wants to kill me. Once I get those little matters sorted out, I’ll let you know. And,” I added, “it’ll be a book lesson. No more fighting for a long time.”
“What’s a Hellion?”
“Look it up in Russom’s. Chapter twenty-four.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you all about it next time. Whenever that is. I hope it’s soon!” Tina’s face glowed, as much as a zombie’s complexion can. It was good to see her so happy. “Have you got any chips or cookies or anything? I’m starving.”
I went into the kitchen and found some chips. Back in the living room, I tossed her the whole bag. She polished it off in about ten seconds—no wonder they don’t let zombies enter hot-dog-eating competitions—then started bundling up to go outside. It was nearly sunset, but zombies couldn’t be too careful when it came to sunlight.
“Hey, look,” she said, pointing to the TV. “It’s about the parade.”
On the screen, norm anchorman Tom Cody sat in front of a picture from last year’s parade—people in cheesy vampire and devil costumes or rubber masks of famous politicians mugging it up for the camera—as he began the story: “Ghosts and ghouls galore will march in Boston’s annual Halloween parade tomorrow night, but you won’t see any zombies.”
The picture behind him changed to show a group of real-life zombies with a big red nosymbol slapped across it. “The court has turned down an appeal to issue Deadtown’s previously deceased humans a group permit that would have allowed them to enter a float in the parade. According to the mayor’s office, no permits will be issued for the previously deceased to leave Designated Area One at any time on October 31. The Council of Three has sent a formal letter of protest.”
“Big whoop,” said Tina. “A letter of protest. The mayor’s being so not fair. I think we should crash the stupid blood-bag parade.”
“Tina, don’t talk like that,” I said. “You don’t want to risk being picked up by the Removal Squad.”
“What could they do? If few hundred of us showed up, they wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
I shook my head. “Not a good idea. Not this close to the election.” God, I thought, I sound like Kane.
She shrugged. “You’re probably right. Well, I’ll see you when I see you.” She walked stiffly to the door—a little stiffer than usual. I hoped she hadn’t overdone it in our swordplay. With her hand on the knob, she turned back. “Were you telling the truth before—when you said somebody tried to kidnap you?”
I nodded.
“So you really turned into a panther and all?”
I nodded again.
“Good, I’ll have to tell Jenna. She said she saw you last night walking down Winter Street, and you were wearing a garbage bag. She thought you’d gone all insane or something.”
From the sofa, Juliet laughed, sounding more like a squealing teenager than a seductive vampiress.
“Well, now you know the truth,” I said, pushing Tina out the door.
Ten minutes later, when I opened the weapons cupboard to load up my duffel bag, I realized something was wrong. The sword of Saint Michael was missing. Tina had stolen it.
23CALLS TO TINA’S SCHOOL AND THE GROUP HOME WHERE she lived produced nothing. She hadn’t shown up at school, and her house mother hadn’t seen her since four in the afternoon, when she left to come over to my place.
I didn’t have time to hunt her down. I had to get to Lucado’s condo—and I couldn’t be late. Not after what had happened last night. But without the sword of Saint Michael, was there any reason for me to be there?
Stop it, Vicky. I couldn’t afford to think that way. When the time came, I’d have to face Difethwr, regardless of how I was armed. I just hoped, now, that the showdown wouldn’t come tonight. Tomorrow I’d find Tina and get my sword back. Not to mention give her a good chewing out. If she ever did anything like this again—ever—she could forget about studying with me. I wasn’t sure I’d even give her that much of a second chance.
If I had to fight Difethwr without Saint Michael’s sword, there might be no second chance at all—for Tina or for me.
From the weapons cabinet, I chose two swords: another falchion and a cutlass, which had a slightly shorter blade. I needed to try each of them out to see which felt better, but I’d have to do it at Lucado’s place. No time now. I packed them in my bag, then grabbed a taxi and told the driver to floor it to Commodore Wharf.
He did, and we got there at two minutes to seven. I ran into the lobby, expecting to tangle with Rosie the doorman again, but tonight a different guy was on duty, one who actually looked like a doorman instead of a hitman. He checked the list, nodded, and called Lucado to let him know I was on my way up.
Lucado was waiting for me at his door, in a bad mood. “Well, good God—you actually decided to come to work,” he said.
“Nice to see you, too, Frank.”
“I’m busy tonight. So don’t bother me.” Judging by the smell of his breath and the way he slurred his words, he was busy getting drunk. None of my business. I didn’t want to sit around chatting, anyway. “I’ll be in my study,” he said. “Long as you leave me alone, you’ve got the run of the place.”
“Okay,” I said, heading for the living room. “Have fun.”
Falchion in hand—my left hand—I made a quick sweep of the condo: living room, hallway, kitchen, up the stairs to Frank’s bedroom and the guest room, and all two and a half bathrooms. Roxana’s amulet stayed clear and colorless. Back downstairs, I stood outside Frank’s study, shifted the sword to my right hand and, left-handed, pressed the amulet against the door. Nothing. As I returned the sword to my left hand, my right arm passed a little too close to stone, making it a pink so pale it was almost white. I hoped that tinge of color wasn’t enough to affect the scrying mirror. No point in putting the coven on the alert when it was just little old me.
“Um, hi, witches. Everything’s okay,” I said, just in case.
Back in the living room, I tried the falchion, then the cutlass, then the falchion again in my left hand, making cutting and thrusting motions through the air. The falchion felt better balanced to me, more like the sword of Saint Michael. It was the same kind of sword, after all, except that its hilt was steel, not gold, and its blade a half-inch shorter. The biggest difference, of course, was that unlike the archangel’s sword, it wouldn’t burn with holy flame in the presence of a demon. And I didn’t know whether anointing its blade with sacramental wine would be enough to kill Difethwr. A lesser demon, yes. But a Hellion? I hoped I’d get Saint Michael’s sword back before I had to find out.
I used Lucado’s kitchen phone to call around about Tina again. It looked like she’d skipped school completely tonight, and she hadn’t gone home. As much as I was furious with her for taking my sword, I also hoped she was okay. There are a lot of real nasties roaming around Deadtown—and Tina, really, was just a kid.
The clock on the microwave read 8:02. It was shaping up to be a long night. I wandered back into the living room, feeling restless because I was so frustrated. It seemed like the walls were pressing in on me, imprisoning me in this condo. There was so much I had to do: find Tina, get my sword back, make up with Kane—or break up, if he really had tried to have me kidnapped. Most of all, I wanted to send Difethwr back to Hell. But I couldn’t make any of that happen right now. I was stuck here, waiting. Damn it all, I wanted to act.
I wandered back to the living room, where I paced back and forth across Frank’s expensive Persian rug, burning off some of that nervous energy. If I kept that up, I’d wear a track into the rug. I looked around. Okay, if I couldn’t spring into action, there was always TV. The room held leather club chairs, a fireplace, a bar, a round dining table in the ell—my God, there was even a bookcase. So Frank did know how to read. But there was no television. It seemed un-American somehow.
Then I spotted a remote on a table next to one of the club chairs. I went over and picked it up. It was a television remote, but where was the TV? I pressed the power button and heard a whirring noise behind me. I spun around, jumpy. The mirror over the fireplace was lifting to reveal a forty-two-inch plasma screen behind it. A clever disguise—I wouldn’t mind something like that to hide Juliet’s monstrosity at home. I pressed some more buttons. The screen moved out from the wall, and I could turn it to the perfect angle for viewing. Cool. I flopped into a leather chair and dangled my legs over the arm.
It was set to a sports channel that, right now, had one of those superfake pro-wrestling shows on. I watched it for a few minutes. They threw each other into the ropes, did somersaults together; one flipped the other out of the ring. Did anyone really believe this stuff? It was so choreographed it was more like dancing than fighting. I flipped through the channels. Shopping. Click. An infomercial about time-shares. Click. Some cheesy science fiction movie from the 1950s. Click. Cartoons, cop shows, political commentary. Click, click, click.
Two guys fighting on the screen. I sat up straighter to watch. Even though it was a movie—a seventies kung fu movie, from the look of it—the fighting looked real. More real than the pro wrestling, anyway. The combatants were fast, skilled, and graceful. And their eyes—each guy looked like he really wanted to kill the other.
The plot was a simple one. A warlord had terrorized a village, and the hero was out for revenge, making a steady advance on the warlord’s heavily guarded palace. Nothing the warlord tried could stop him. The warlord sent his best warrior; the hero killed him. The warlord sent a troop of archers; the hero dodged their arrows and mowed them down. The warlord sent a seductive female assassin; the hero killed her, too. Increasingly panicked, the warlord gathered the best fighters in the kingdom. In a long fight scene, they attacked the hero hand to hand, with nunchakus, with swords. Nothing could slow the hero down. In the end, he killed the warlord.