Выбрать главу

"We will, Sam, we will," Nic vowed. He was closely seconded by Alex, whose usual good spirits had vanished with the night's gruesome discovery.

Ripley had been sniffing the air, and he remarked, "The Meduse doesn't leave any scent. Strange, but I can't get anything from either the victim or this alley."

Sam frowned. A werewolf had a better nose than a bloodhound. "You didn't get a scent at Jessie's place either?"

Ripley shook his head. "The Meduse must have some kind of spell protecting him."

"Probably the de-scenting spell. Costly, very costly. And it only makes things harder for us," Sam complained, shaking her head. She pulled a card out of the dead woman's wallet, noting it was a pass card. "The victim works for Dragnet Industries, a business that goes over to Asia and captures dragons for domestic use here in the U.S.A. She's also a card-carrying witch. The Cagney and Lacy Clan."

"Dragons for domestic use?" Alex asked curiously.

"Yeah. Dragons are used for controlled crop burning in the midwest, and of course nationwide at funeral homes. Cremation."

Nic tapped his foot, his expression grave. "She wasn't exactly born a supernatural, but she did work for a more magical industry and is a witch. She was also blond. I wonder what else about her drew the gorgon?"

"She's got great breasts," Alex volunteered. "So did Jessie."

Sam narrowed her eyes and nodded curtly. "Thank you for telling me. Thank you so much. Now if you come a bit closer, I'll put my fist in your eye."

Nic sighed. His brother had always been a breast man. He himself preferred the total package—a package very much in the shape and size of Sam Hammett.

"I can't believe the gorgon struck again so soon," Ripley muttered, voicing everyone's thoughts.

"Three nights and he's struck again. That's bad news," Nic agreed. Looking back at the sidewalk to where a few Goth-costumed clubbers were walking by, he noted, "It's a pretty public place to be getting his kicks in killing. He must not be afraid of capture at all."

"Or John Q. Public. It appears that Nero's certainly not sitting around fiddling while we roam," Sam added hotly. She summed up her conclusions: "He comes out of nowhere and starts stoning women. This is the second victim we know of in three days. Usually a serial stoner works up to his killing. It usually takes months. Yet we have two occurrences in less than a week. You don't go from crawling to running. No, there must be other bodies that we know nothing about."

Sam glanced at Nic, who was rising from examining the corpse. His stance was taut, his body weight evenly distributed; he stood on the balls of his feet, ready for the rocky path ahead.

"If there were any other murders, we would have heard it through the paranormal pipeline. Petroff has good connections. So do I," Nic remarked as he glanced back down at the victim. "But I tend to agree with you, Sam. This hunter is skilled and unafraid. Maybe he just got to New York and his other kills are elsewhere—maybe the West Coast or Europe."

"You aren't as stupid as you act, Nic," Sam remarked. "Congratulations."

Alex hid his smile behind his hand, while Nic merely stared at her. After a moment he said, "Well, isn't this a Hallmark moment?"

Turning her back on the brothers grim and grimmer, Sam headed back toward the club. Over her shoulder she called, "Just one more thing. I'll check my West Coast contacts tomorrow. Since you guys have friends in Europe, you can check there."

"Where are you going?" Nic called out. He was irritated that the sight of her curvy, swinging hips could almost mesmerize him. She was dynamite in that short blue skirt, dynamite ready to go bang. Which was entirely the wrong train of thought. There was a big, bad monster loose in New York, and he was lusting after a maddening menace with a big mouth.

"I'm going to bed," Sam said. Then she stopped and turned. "But that's not an invitation. Now be sure you dispose of the body properly; NYPD Supernatural just isn't up to it." She started briskly walking, trying to escape the cold night air and the hovering chill of death.

Nic watched Sam go, his insides smoldering. Noticing that his little brother was avidly watching him watch her, he frowned. He shot Alex a hard look. "Don't press your luck, buddy. Just keep your mouth shut."

For once Alex took his eldest brother's advice.

After a moment, glancing back down at the woman in rock, he asked Nic, "What do we do with her?"

"What would one normally do with a stone statue of erotic nature?"

"Take it to a quarry?" his younger brother guessed.

"Nope. To an art gallery specializing in erotic art," Nic explained, and they rolled the corpse in a blanket Ripley had procured.

"Got one in mind?" the werewolf asked.

"Yeah, the McCloud Gallery."

"Ah. I know it. I'll take her," Ripley volunteered.

"Okay, but while you're there, check and see if there's any more life-sized art like this. Maybe someone else has the same idea as me for getting rid of murder victims," Nic advised gravely. He turned. "Alex, you and I have to make those calls pretty soon, what with the time difference in Europe and all."

Alex patted his brother on the shoulder. "You know, Nic, Sam was right. You aren't as dumb as you look."

Give Us Your Tired, Your Poor, your Haunted Masses yearning to Be Free

The next night was one to give a person the willies. Pea soup fog inched outward, spreading across the pavement and winding its fingers around buildings and cars. The air was cold enough to penetrate the bones, unseasonably cold for October in New York. The ride across in the ferry had been bitterly uncomfortable, and fairly silent since Sam was pouting and Alex was canceling a date on his cell phone with some bimbo he had met. High in the dark heavens, the wind blew a thick cloud across the waxing moon, which would be full in a couple of days, Sam noted as she walked off the boat.

What was going to happen would happen tonight; she felt it in her bones just like the chill. Just what would happen she couldn't say, since there was neither rhyme nor reason to her gut instinct, just a feeling she couldn't shake. The conviction blanketed her mind like the cloud across the moon.

The others had scoffed at her insistence on the gorgon being infatuated with the Statue of Liberty. She could still hear Nic's parting shot as they'd split up to each go his merry way. Once again Sam had been tempted to tell him about the reference to the perverted sexual interest of Medusae, but some imp had kept her quiet. She and Alex had come her to kill the Meduse, and Nic could go hang. He and the others had split themselves between the various Goth clubs.

"Happy hunting," Nic had called to Sam and Alex's departing backs. Forest had shadowed him, standing too close for Sam's taste, but Nic was lapping up the Irish vampire's regard like Irish whiskey, she noted peevishly. Also it had been more than obvious that the pair thought she and Alex were on a fool's mission. Forest had been giggling as they'd left the hotel.

Well, let the woman laugh. Sam knew the old adage, He who laughs last laughs best, and she intended to be hysterical by the time she was in bed for the night.

Slamming her mind shut against any more thoughts of Nic and the vexatious vamp, Sam glanced up at the Statue of Liberty, taking in its proud majesty. A feeling of profound pride flooded her system, as it always did when she gazed upon the grand old lady. This dame was something else, with her hand held high, loftily lighting the way for new generations to find their American dream, just as she had done for millions before. The lady was a beauty, no doubt about it, and no self-respecting gorgon would be able to resist.

The poem inscribed at the base always affected Sam, that poem which had been changed slightly over the last eighty years to say, "Give me your tired your poor, your hungry haunted massesyour ghosts, your vampires, your werewolves and other supernatural predators yearning to be free."