Dead Beat

Thomas recovered his balance and pulled me grimly into the car. I fumbled with the keys and shoved them into place. I twisted the key in desperate haste, mashing on the gas as I did. The engine turned over once and then stalled.

"Dammit!" Thomas cried in frustration. A streak of faint green light appeared in the air over the car’s hood. A second later another went by, this time ending at the hood. There was a startling sound of impact and the frame of the car rattled. A bullet hole appeared in the hood.

I tried the car again and this time coaxed the old VW to life.

"Hail the mighty Beetle!" I crowed, and slapped the car into reverse. The wheels spun up gravel and mud, and I shot back straight into a crowd of zombies, slamming into them and sending them flying.

I whipped the car’s hood toward the street and shifted into drive. As I did, I got a look at the Corpsetaker bearing down on Grevane, tulwar raised. From somewhere in his coat, Grevane produced a length of chain, and as the sword swept toward him he held up the chain, his arms outstretched, and caught the blow on the links between them, sliding the deadly blade away from him.

Corpsetaker howled in fury and whirled the phantom mount around to charge him again, almost absently striking the head from a zombie as she passed it.

I flattened the gas pedal, and the Beetle lurched forward-straight toward a trio of ghostly cavalry troops. They bore down on us, not wavering.

"I hate playing chicken," I muttered, and shifted into second.

Just before I would have hit them, the cavalry leapt, translucent horses and riders rising effortlessly into the air, over the car, to land on the ground behind me. I didn’t give them a chance to whirl and try it again. I bounced the Beetle out onto the street, turned left, and charged away at flank speed. I got a few blocks away, then slowed enough to roll down the window.

There were no screams or shrieks of battle. The rain muffled the sound, and in the heavy darkness I couldn’t see anything going on behind me. I could dimly hear the whumping bass drum that kept Grevane’s zombies going, still somewhere out there in the background. Beyond that, very quiet but getting nearer, I heard sirens.

"Everyone all right?" I asked.

"I’ll make it," Thomas said. He had stripped out of his jacket and shirt, and had the latter pressed to the side of his bleeding head.

"Mouse?" I asked.

There was a wet, snuffling sound by my ear, and Mouse licked my cheek.

"Good," I said. "Butters?"

There was silence.

Thomas looked at the backseat, frowning.

"Butters?" I repeated. "Heya, man. Earth to Butters."

Silence.

"Butters?" I asked.

There was a long pause. Then a slow inhalation. Then he said, in a very weak voice, "Polka will never die."

I felt my mouth stretch into a fierce grin. "Damn right it won’t," I said.

"True." Thomas sighed. "Where are we going?"

"We can’t go back there," I said. "And with the wards torn down, it wouldn’t do us too much good anyway."

"Where, then?" Thomas asked.

I stopped at a stop sign and patted at my pockets for a moment. I found one of the two things I was looking for.

Thomas frowned at me. "Harry? What’s wrong?"

"The copy of the numbers I made for Grevane," I said. "It’s gone. Liver Spots must have grabbed it from me when we were tussling."

"Damn," Thomas said.

I found the key to Murphy’s house in another pocket. "Okay. I’ve got a place we can hole up for a while, until we can figure out our next move. How bad is the cut?"

"Bleeder," Thomas said. "Looks worse than it is."

"Keep pressure on it," I said.

"Thank you, yes," Thomas said, though he sounded more amused than annoyed.

I got the Beetle moving again, frowning out the windows. "Hey," I said. "Do you guys notice something?"

Thomas peered around for a moment. "Not really. Too dark."

Butters drew in a sharp breath. His voice still unsteady, he said, "That’s right. It’s too dark." He pointed out one window. "That’s where the skyline should be."

Thomas stared out. "It’s gone dark."

"Lights are out," I said quietly. "Do you see any anywhere?"

Thomas looked around for a moment, then reported, "Looks like a fire off that way. Some headlights. Some police lights. The rest are…" He shook his head.

"What happened?" Butters whispered.

"So that’s what Mab meant. They did this," I said. "The heirs of Kemmler."

"But why?" Thomas asked.

"They think that one of them is going to become a god tomorrow night. They’re creating fear. Chaos. Helplessness."

"Why?"

"They’re preparing the way."

Thomas didn’t say anything. None of us did.

I can’t speak for the others, but I was afraid.

The Beetle’s tires whispered over the streets as I drove through the cold, lightless murk that had fallen over Chicago like a funeral shroud.

Chapter Twenty-four

Murphy’s house had belonged to her grandmother. It was a dinky little place, and resided in a neighborhood built before Edison’s lights went into vogue, and while some areas like that became ragged and run-down, this particular street looked more like some kind of historical real estate preserve, with well-kept lawns, trimmed trees, and tidy paint jobs on all the homes.

I pulled the Beetle into the driveway, hesitated for half a second, and then continued up onto the lawn and around to the rear of the house, parking beside a little outbuilding that looked like a toolshed as envisioned by the Gingerbread Man. I killed the engine, and sat for a moment listening to the car make those just-stopped clicking sounds. Without the headlights, it was very dark. My leg hurt like hell. It seemed like a really great idea to close my eyes and get some rest.

Instead I fumbled around until I found the cardboard box I keep in the car. Next to a couple of holy-water balloons, an old pair of socks, and a heavy old potato, I found a crinkling plastic package. I tore it open, bent the plastic tube inside sharply, and shook it up. The two chemical liquids inside mixed, and the glow stick began to shine with gold-green light.

I got out of the car and hauled my tired ass toward the back door. Thomas and Mouse and Butters followed me. I unlocked the door with Murphy’s key, and led everyone inside.

Murphy’s place was… dare I say it, really cute. The furniture was old Victorian, worn but well cared for. There were a lot of doilies in its decorating scheme, and all in all it was a very girly sort of place. When Murphy’s grandmother passed away and Murphy moved in, she hadn’t changed it much. The sole concession to the presence of Chicago’s toughest little detective was a simple wooden stand on the fireplace mantel, which held a pair of curved Japanese swords one over the other.