“It’s New Meat,” said Macha.
“We should give him a new name,” said Babd. “I mean, he’s really not that new anymore.”
“Hush,” hushed Macha.
“Hey, lover,” Babd called out of her drain. “Did you miss me?”
Charlie paid the cabbie and stood in the middle of the street looking at the big jade-green Queen Anne. There were lights on in the turret upstairs and in one window downstairs. He could just make out the sign that read THREE JEWELS BUDDHIST CENTER. He started to step toward the house and saw movement in the lattice under the porch—eyes shining. A cat maybe. His cell phone rang and he flipped it open.
“Charlie, it’s Rivera. I have some good news; we found Carrie Long, the woman from the pawnshop, and she’s still alive. She was tied up and thrown in a Dumpster a block from her store.”
“That’s great,” Charlie said. But he wasn’t feeling great. The things that had been moving under the porch were coming out. Moving up the stairs, standing on the porch, lining up and facing him. Twenty or thirty of them, a little more than a foot tall, dressed in ornate period costumes. Each had the skeletal face of a dead animal, cats, foxes, badgers—animals Charlie couldn’t identify, but just the skulls—the eye sockets empty, black. Yet they stared.
“You won’t believe what she said put her there, Charlie. Little creatures, little monsters, she said.”
“About fourteen inches tall,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Lots of teeth and claws, like animal parts stuck together, all dressed up like they were going to a grand costume ball?”
“What are you telling me, Charlie? What do you know?”
“Just guessing,” Charlie said. He unclipped the latch on his sword-cane.
“Hey, lover,” came a female voice from behind him. “Did you miss me?”
Charlie turned. She was crawling out of the drain almost directly behind him.
“The bad news,” Rivera said, “is we found the junk dealer and the bookstore guy from Book ’em Danno—pieces of them.”
“That is bad news,” Charlie said. He started moving up the street, away from the sewer harpy and the porch full of Satan’s sock puppets.
“New Meat,” came a voice from up the street.
Charlie looked to see another sewer harpy coming out of the drain, her eyes gleaming black in the streetlight. Behind him he heard the clacking of little animal teeth.
“Charlie, I still think you should leave town for a while, but if you don’t, and don’t tell anyone I told you this, you should get a gun, maybe a couple of guns.”
“I think that would be a great idea,” Charlie said. The two sewer harpies were moving very slowly toward him, awkwardly, as if their nerves were short-circuiting. The one closest to him, the one from the alley in North Beach, was licking her lips. She looked a little ragged compared to the night she’d seduced him. He moved up the street away from them.
“A shotgun, so you won’t need to learn to shoot. I can’t give you one, but—”
“Inspector, I’m going to have to get back to you.”
“I’m serious, Charlie, whatever these things are, they are going after your kind.”
“You have no idea how clear that is to me, Inspector.”
“Is that the one who shot me?” said the closest harpy. “Tell him I’m going to suck his eyeballs out of the sockets and chew them in his ear.”
“You get that, Inspector?” Charlie said.
“She’s there?”
“They,” Charlie said.
“This way, Meat,” said the third sewer harpy, coming out of the drain at the far end of the block. She stood, extended her claws, and flicked a line of venom down the side of a parked car. The paint sizzled and ran where it hit.
“Where are you, Charlie? Where are you?”
“I’m in the Mission. Near the Mission.”
The little creatures were coming down the steps now, down the walk toward the street.
“Look,” said a harpy, “he brought presents.”
“Charlie, where exactly are you?” said Rivera.
“Gotta go, Inspector.” Charlie flipped the phone closed and dropped it in his coat pocket. Then he drew the sword from the cane and turned to the harpy from the alley. “For you,” he said to her, whipping the sword in a flourish through the air.
“That’s sweet,” she said. “You always think about my needs.”
The 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham was the perfect show-off of death machines. It consisted of nearly three tons of steel stamped into a massively mawed, high-tailed beast, lined with enough chrome to build a Terminator and still have parts left over—most of it in long, sharp strips that peeled off on impact and became lethal scythes to flay away pedestrian flesh. Under the four headlights it sported two chrome bumper bullets that looked like unexploded torpedoes or triple-G-cup Madonna death boobs. It had a noncollapsible steering column that would impale the driver upon any serious impact, electric windows that could pinch off a kid’s head, no seat belts, and a 325 horsepower V8 with such appallingly bad fuel efficiency that you could hear it trying to slurp liquefied dinosaurs out of the ground when it passed. It had a top speed of a hundred and ten miles an hour, mushy, bargelike suspension that could in no way stabilize the car at that speed, and undersized power brakes that wouldn’t stop it either. The fins jutting from the back were so high and sharp that the car was a lethal threat to pedestrians even when parked, and the whole package sat on tall, whitewall tires that looked, and generally handled, like oversized powdered doughnuts. Detroit couldn’t have achieved more deadly finned ostentatia if they’d covered a killer whale in rhinestones. It was a masterpiece.
And the reason you need to know all that, is that along with the battle-worn Morrigan and the well-dressed chimeras, a ’57 Eldorado was rapidly approaching Charlie.
The bloodred lacquered Eldo slid around the corner, tires screaming like flaming peacocks, hubcaps spinning off toward the curb, engine roaring, spewing blue smoke out of the rear wheel wells like a flatulent dragon. The first of the Morrigan turned in time to take a bumper bullet in the thigh before she was dragged and folded under the car and spit out the back into a black heap. The headlights came on and the Caddy veered toward the Morrigan nearest Charlie.
The animal creatures scurried back up the sidewalk and Charlie ran up onto the hood of a parked Honda as the Eldo smacked the second Morrigan. She rag-doll-whipped over the hood as the car’s brakes screamed, then flew twenty yards down the street. The Caddy peeled out and hit her again, this time rolling over her with a series of thumps and leaving her tossing down the tarmac, shedding pieces as she rolled. The Caddy blazed on toward the final Morrigan.
This one had a few seconds on her sisters and started running up the street, her shape changing, arms to wings, tail feathers trying to manifest, but she didn’t seem able to make the transformation in time to fly. The Eldo plowed over her, then hit the brakes, reversed, and burned rubber on her back.
Charlie ran up on the roof of the Honda, ready to leap away from the street, but the Caddy stopped and the blacked-out electric window wound down.
“Get the fuck in the car,” said Minty Fresh.
Minty Fresh hit the final Morrigan again as he speeded off down the block, took two screeching lefts, then pulled the car to the curb, jumped out, and ran around to the front.