Deadtown

The woman stood and extended her hand. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” Her hand was cold and a little damp. She shook hands vigorously and seemed reluctant to let go. I tugged my hand away, and we both sat down.

“Vicky, this is Sheila Gravett. She’s a doctor. She’s offering free health screenings to selected children from Maria’s school.”

Gravett—I knew that name. The woman watched me with intense interest, and a chill swept over me as I realized who she was. Gravett Biotech. The werewolf cloner. And she was here to ask Gwen about her kids? I narrowed my eyes at her.

“Why don’t you tell my sister the truth, Dr. Gravett?”

Gwen gaped at me. Gravett smoothed a hand over her already smooth hair and smiled, like she was glad I’d seen through her lie. She started to say something, but I cut her off. “The good doctor isn’t a pediatrician. She’s a research scientist—and president of Gravett Biotech. She’s trying to decode the Cerddorion genome so that her company can make a fortune off it. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

“What I’m doing is in the interest of science. As I explained to you on the phone—”

Gwen blinked rapidly, like she was trying to process what was going on. “You lied to me? You wanted to”—she searched for the right word—“to study my children under the pretense of a medical exam?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Santini. In fact, I’m relieved your sister has revealed the truth. I don’t like to fabricate lies.” She shot me a cool glance. “But Vicky has been uncooperative, and I wanted a chance to meet you in person, to explain that this research can unlock the hidden mysteries of shapeshifting, for the good of your children, your family—for the good of this great nation.”

Oh, please. All we needed was a waving flag and the “Star-Spangled Banner” swelling in the background. “Okay, Dr. Gravett,” I said, “you’ve made your case. As you can see, Gwen isn’t interested. The front door’s that way.”

Gravett didn’t move. She leaned forward in her chair, watching Gwen, who twisted her hands in her lap.

I stood up and stepped toward the researcher. “Out,” I said. “I’ll pick you up and throw you out myself if you don’t get moving. I’m not kidding.”

Gravett looked at me, a challenge in her eyes. Her expression suggested she’d like nothing better than a chance to witness my paranormal strength. After another glance at Gwen, she sighed and got to her feet.

That’s when Gwen looked up. “Wait. If you decode this genome, does that mean—” Her eyes shone. “Does that mean you could find a cure?”

“A cure?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard her right. “For God’s sake, Gwen, it’s not a disease. It’s what we are.”

My sister turned to me, her face cold. “It’s what youare. I’m not. And I don’t want my daughter to be, either.”

Gravett pushed past me to sit down next to Gwen. “Once we understand how the shapeshifter gene works, we may be able to deactivate it, yes.”

The wheels were spinning behind Gwen’s eyes. You could almost see her calculating how much time the research might take versus how much time Maria had left until puberty. I wanted to shake her, to tell her to let her daughter be what she was—Cerddorion or human.

The grandfather clock in the corner chimed five. Gwen blinked, looking like she’d just come out of a dream. She stood. “I have to start supper,” she said. “I’ll think about it, Dr. Gravett. I have your card. I’ll call you.”

Gravett stood too, smiling that damned smug smile, and Gwen walked her to the front door.

“Gwen—” I began when she came back.

“Don’t start, Vicky. Just don’t. I’m not going to discuss it with you now.” She pushed past me and went into the kitchen. This time, no banging sounds emerged. The silence was scarier.

I didn’t stay for dinner. Besides the fact that I still didn’t want to be introduced to Andy, the bad feelings between Gwen and me meant that this was not a good night to be sharing lasagna around the Santini family table. So I took a taxi to Needham Heights Station and caught an early train back to Boston. After the conductor punched my ticket, I sat and stared out the window. The light faded as we sped past graffiti-covered walls, gradually showing nothing but my own scowling face reflected in the glass. I was glad the light was gone, plunging Boston into the world of vampires, zombies, and other night creatures. The meeting with Gravett the mad scientist had put me in a bad mood. I was ready to kill some demons.

10

BOSTON’S NORTH END IS A WARREN OF NARROW, TWISTING streets lined with brownstones, mom-and-pop grocery stores, wholesalers, and some of the best Italian restaurants you’ll find outside of Tuscany. I drove down North Street and turned right on Lewis—the Jag whined in protest as I turned the wheel, then coughed a couple of times. Damn, I really needed to get that checked. I made a left on Commercial, which brought me to Atlantic and the waterfront. There it was, Commodore Wharf. I had to hand it to Lucado—he’d put up a good-looking building. Tasteful, even. Mostly brick, it rose ten stories and sported balconies, arched windows, and lots of glass. Modern, luxurious, but not out of place in Boston’s oldest neighborhood.

I parked in a visitor’s space and breezed past the doorman, who waved me through when I told him who I was there to see. The lobby was as classy as the building’s exterior: marble floors, dark wood paneling, leather chairs clustered here and there in conversation groups. Nice.

When I rang Lucado’s doorbell, it was a few minutes before ten. The door was opened by a massive chest with pumped-up pecs. At least, that’s what it looked like until I craned my head back to see the guy’s face. He was well over six feet tall, and he had the face of a prizefighter who’d won himself more poundings than prizes: beady eyes and a zigzagging nose that’d been broken in at least three places. Besides a too-tight T-shirt, he wore jeans and black boots. Strange uniform for a butler, so I was guessing this must be Lucado’s bodyguard.

“You the demon killer?” His basso profundo voice sounded skeptical.

“That’s me.”

“Lemme see some ID.”

I handed him my state-issued PA identification card. Its photo was better than the mug shot on my driver’s license, not that I cared what Lucado’s pet ape thought. He squinted at it for a long time. I was about to offer help sounding out the words, when he handed it back to me. Then he stood there, filling up the doorway, the Man-Mountain of Massachusetts.

“I need to talk to Mr. Lucado before I set up.” I went to push past him. He didn’t budge. I shoved a bit harder. I might as well have tried to move the wall. Then I realized the game he was playing. He must have heard about how I’d half-crushed Lucado’s hand; now he wanted to test my strength against his. Despite his size, I could pick this guy up and toss him over my shoulder if I felt like it, but I liked to conserve my strength when I was on the job. Worse, tapping into my full strength could cause the demon essence to stir—not a good way to start a new acquaintance, especially when the guy was already annoying me. So I’d let the ape think he’d won. This time. I stepped back and waited.

After a second, he moved aside. I think I saw the shadow of a smile way up there in the stratosphere.

“Leave your bags here,” he said. I didn’t like to be separated from my weapons at work, but I could understand a bodyguard’s reluctance to let them in the house. Some clients are funny that way. The second bag was more or less empty; it was for packing up the Harpy carcasses after the job. I let both bags drop where I stood.

“Frank’s in the living room.” He jerked his head back, then sat down in the chair beside the front door and opened a comic book. I’m not sure, but I think he was reading Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Lucado must have paid his interior decorator a fortune. Everything about the place said “old money,” even though rumor had it that most of Frank’s money was of the freshly laundered variety. Oil paintings in gilt frames adorned the walls, antique furniture was placed in artful arrangements, and the Persian carpet under my feet looked way too pricey to be walking on.

In the living room, Frank sat in a leather club chair, holding a brandy snifter. He looked up as I approached. The scar nearly made me flinch. I’d forgotten how impressive it was. If shock value could be measured in dollars, that scar would be worth a couple million, at least.

“You shouldn’t be drinking, Frank. You’ve got a sleeping pill to take, remember?”

“A little nightcap won’t hurt.” He swirled the liquid around in his glass, then took a swig. “Besides, I told you—I don’t take pills.”

“You’re taking one tonight, or I’m leaving.”

We stared at each other, tension in the air between us. Neither of us blinked. Finally, Frank banged down his glass, brandy sloshing up the side.

“They don’t work,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Sleeping pills. They don’t work worth crap.” A shadow of desperation crossed his face, making the scar stand out like lightning at midnight. “Like I said, I don’t do pills. But these attacks—it’s been so damn horrible, I’ve already tried sleeping pills. I thought if I knocked myself out, I’d sleep through it.” His hand, resting on the arm of the chair, clenched into a fist. “Didn’t happen. They woke me up somehow, and it was the same as every other goddamn night.”

“Tonight will be different. I’ll kill the Harpies before they can get to you. You’ll sleep like a baby, and tomorrow will be a fresh new day.”

“A fresh new day. La-di-dah. You sound like a song from a musical.” He glowered at me. “I hate musicals.”

But he picked up the sleeping pill from a tray on the table beside him. He held the tablet between his thumb and forefinger, pointed to it with his other hand, and then made a big show of putting it in his mouth. He swallowed it, then washed it down with the rest of his brandy.