She turned to look at the Elizabethan warlock and the lumpy fat demon. “You’ve had your fun. Now why don’t you all head on home like good little dears, hmm?”
Several of the demons and magic-users in the crowd began to slowly move away, but the Elizabethan warlock, though shaken, held his ground.
“You don’t scare us, Granny Red. You might be something of a legend, but so what? Nekropolis is chock-full of beings just as famous as you, and most of the time they don’t live up to the hype.”
I looked at the warlock. “Some friendly advice: if you want to live, you will turn around and haul ass in the opposite direction as fast your little Shakespearean shoes will carry you.”
The warlock sneered down at me. “I’m Arcane!
I’m not afraid of some old wo-”
That’s as far as he got. Granny Red stepped forward almost nonchalantly, her knives flashed in the air, and then she stepped back. The warlock stood for a moment, eyes wide with shock, blood gushing from a dozen wounds, and then he toppled to the ground, dead.
Granny turned to the crowd, the warlock’s blood dripping from her silver knives.
“Anyone else like to show Granny how tough they are?” she asked sweetly.
Demonkin and Arcane alike decided that discretion was the more sensible part of valor, and they turned and fled en masse. When they were gone, Granny walked over to the warlock’s corpse, cleaned her blades on his clothes, and then tucked them into sheaths on her leather belt. Varney had kept hold of Devona the entire time, but he let go of her now, and she came over to me and picked my head up. Her mind reached out to me.
Is that really her? she thought.
Yes. Granny Red, the most feared monster killer in history. A myth made flesh, a bedtime story told to so many children over the centuries that she came to life, birthed from the collective unconscious of the human race. She was a young girl when she started out, of course, just like in the story, and she began by hunting werewolves. But she branched out as she got older, and when the Darkfolk moved to Nekropolis, she followed. Everyone fears her, including, I suspect, the Darklords themselves.
I’d first met Granny when I was trying to track down a murderous cyborg lyke who called himself the Megawolf. She’d been on his trail too, and we’d ended up working together to take him down. I have to admit that Granny scares me too. As much as I don’t like to think about it, I am a monster, and slaying monsters is her one and only purpose in life.
In many ways, she’s as single-minded in her motivations as a great white shark – and ten times as deadly. And because she’s literally a living legend, she’s intimidating as hell, truly larger than life – or maybe in her case, larger than death.
Granny turned to Devona and smiled. “I’d heard Matthew had found himself a nice girl. I’m so pleased to meet you, my dear.”
Granny held out her hand, and Devona tucked me under one arm while she reached out and shook Granny’s hand. I was impressed to see that my love trembled only a little as she clasped hands with Granny. Granny gave her hand a gentle shake and then released it. Devona kept a smile fixed firmly on her face, but I could feel her tension through our telepathic link. Granny has killed more than her fair share of vampires over the centuries.
Granny lowered her gaze to me. “It looks like you’re quite literally in good hands, Matthew, so I think I’ll go back and have another cup of tea. It was lovely to see you again. And remember-”
“Don’t talk to strangers,” I finished for her.
She grinned, nodded, and walked casually back to The Teahouse of the Gibbous Moon. Only when she was inside and the door closed did we relax.
“So that was Granny Red. How interesting.”
Devona turned – which was good, since I wasn’t at the moment capable of doing so – and I saw Shamika had joined us in the street.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “and I’m very glad you’re OK, but I thought you were blasted into pieces by the warlock’s spell.”
She laughed. “You call that a spell? A reasonably competent Arcane child can cast spells stronger than that! It was simple enough to reverse.”
I reached out to Devona through our link, and I could sense my love’s skepticism. Devona isn’t Arcane, but she specializes in security, both mundane and mystical, and is therefore quite knowledgeable about magic. I could sense that Shamika’s words didn’t ring true with Devona. It was something that needed to be looked into – later. Right now we, or at least I, had more pressing problems.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” I said to Devona, “I’d appreciate it if you could try to put this Humpty together again.”
NINE
We were only a couple of blocks from Varvara's stronghold when Scorch announced that she had to use the little demons' room. When I just looked at her, she said, "What? My natural form may be big, but when I'm in this shape, my bladder isn't much larger than a pea."
I wanted to ask her why demons needed to urinate at all, but I decided there are some things which, despite my naturally inquisitive nature, I'm better off not knowing. We stopped at at a Sawney B's, and Scorch entered the faux cave exterior in order to use the restaurant's restroom. Considering that the place is named after the infamous Scottish cannibal and serves fast-food items like lady fingers, marrow shakes, and homunculus nuggets, I hate to think what the restroom conditions are like. Darkfolk or human, one thing that unites both species is that females for some unknown reason seem compelled to visit restrooms in packs. Once we'd stopped, Devona decided she needed to go too, and she asked Shamika if she wanted to come along. The girl looked confused for a moment, as if she was unsure how to respond, but then she nodded and followed Devona inside the restaurant, leaving Varney and me to wait outside.
I leaned back against Sawney B's plastic cave wall and crossed my arms over my chest. Thanks to Papa Chatha's spell, I was managing to keep my various body parts holding together, but it took constant concentration. If I allowed my mind to wander too far, I would feel myself start to lose cohesion, and I had to be careful if I didn't want to go all to pieces again. The warlock's spell had severed my head, arms, hands, legs, and feet from my body. I felt more like a scarecrow than I did a zombie, with joints that could bend in any direction, and movements so loosey-goosey I felt like a comical marionette whose strings were being pulled by a half-drunken puppeteer. Papa had told me that the enchantment that allowed me to keep a severed piece of myself attached to my body would remain effective for about twenty-four hours. But he hadn't said anything about trying to keep multiple severed body parts attached. I wondered how long I would be able to keep up my scarecrow act before I fell apart and stayed that way. I didn't think I was in any danger of being a permanent collection of undead puzzle pieces, not as long as I could find a magic-user to fix me up – or I could always pay a visit on Victor Baron. He once reattached my head, and he could easily do the same for the rest of me. But I didn't want to take time out for repairs. I wanted to find Papa and the rest of the magic-users and stop the conflict between Talaith and Varvara before it erupted into all-out war.
I was grateful for the women's need to take a pit stop, though, for it gave me a chance to be alone with Varney. I had a few questions I wanted to ask my vampiric shadow.
Varney stood next to me, his head swiveling slowly back and forth as his gaze scanned the street.
"Filming?" I asked.
"Just some background footage," he said. "Never know when it'll come in handy. Not much going on here, though. The streets are practically deserted."
"We're close to Demon's Roost. If Varvara really is preparing for war, she's probably had her people cordon off the blocks around her stronghold."
"If that's so, then how will we get through?"