He took his poniard and put it away. “Pan is…was one of the oldest. If any would recognize your partial heritage, he would be the only one. I should’ve watched him more closely. I apologize.” Swiveling, he took in the crowd and sighed. “Thank Zeus it’s nearly over. I’ve never been at a reunion sober and monogamous. They’re somewhat tedious in this state.” He sounded relieved when he said, “But they are all finally intoxicated enough to suffer through the lottery. We’ll end this now. Again, I am sorry—for what he said and what he tried to do. You know none of it is true, kid.” He turned back to give an insistent and reassuring poke of his finger to my chest before he was gone again into the crowd, handing out coins that were each stamped with a number.
None of it? No. I didn’t fool myself. Some of it was true—most of it was true, in fact—but we all have our character flaws. You learn to deal with them. I had. I dropped another apron down to cover Pan’s head. That was one dealt with right there: covering up the evidence that was the result of an impossible wretched thing. “It was self-defense,” Niko said, low—not that any of the pucks could hear anything above themselves. “I know except for the scar, hair, and tattoo, he looked exactly like Robin, but he wasn’t. However connected they might be thousands of years ago genetically, he wasn’t Goodfellow. He was nothing like him.”
He was singing to the choir. I had no qualms about what I’d done. Pan had been an asshole. “No, he wasn’t like Robin,” I agreed without a shred of guilt. He was more like me, although not enough or he might still be alive, but that wouldn’t be something that would ease Niko’s mind to hear, so I didn’t say it. Instead, I rested my chin in my hand and proceeded to watch the lottery. “Wanna take bets on whether or not Robin gets knocked up?”
He didn’t. But from the outraged howls that all but shook the walls, the numbers of about twenty-five pucks came up. Picked out of a large intricate and ancient bronze bowl, Goodfellow held each duplicate coin up to be seen. As the livid shouts continued, I asked, “Does it make your brain hurt? Seeing so many of them so much alike?”
“It does. It’s not meant for the human eye to see. Identical twins and triplets are startling, but this? If there were only fifty of them, you could call them pentacontuplets or demihectuplets or, if going by the Latin, quinquagintuplets. But seventy, that curious to search my brain for the term I’m not.” For Niko that indicated a weariness usually unseen in him. An unknown father, the Panic, serving drinks while standing on a dead puck—I think we’d both had our fill of this day.
But it was over. The pucks were dressing and leaving, some glum at their reproduction duty, other celebrating at dodging the bullet. The lili and lilitu were doing the same with their raincoats. We’d broken up only ten fights in all throughout the night and killed one puck. Taking into account the situation, I realized it could’ve gone much worse. I’d told Nik I needed to get laid, but looking back on the entire reunion, I might go the other way and never need to get laid again.
Goodfellow joined us to watch them go. “If they avoid their obligation to reproduce, what punishment do they receive?” Niko asked.
Robin finished off a last glass of scotch. “Oh, we hunt them down and kill them. If they don’t do their duty to keep the race alive, they’re not much good to us. It’s the only puck crime punishable by death. Now that I think about it, it’s the only crime we have at all. The first, last, and single law.”
“How many times have you lost the lottery and doubled the pleasure, doubled the fun?” I asked with caustic curiosity.
Robin was equally amused and insulted by the question. “Never. There are tricksters and there are tricksters and then there is me. Losing the lottery isn’t in my future. Now, thank you for the assistance and, as a token of appreciation, I’ll take care of disposing of Pan and calling in three or four cleaning crews for the rest of it—the kind the cops call in to clean up sites of multiple murders, as there aren’t enough mops in the building to handle what’s on that floor.” He set his phone on the bar, ready. “Consider it a tip for Pan. He always was a bastard. Loved watching the lions eating the Christians in the Coliseum. A definite prick, and not the good kind that makes you want to whip out your measuring tape.” He waved a hand. “Go, and, Niko, feel free to keep all the dollar bills they stuffed down your apron.” There were wads of them. All pucks, not only Goodfellow, had a thing for my brother.
But that was a discussion for, well, not now. I took the opportunity offered and was out the door with Nik on my heels before Goodfellow had a chance to change his mind, which he frequently did when it came to physical labor. “You are splitting those tips with me, though, right?” I asked Niko as the door slammed behind us.
“As frequently as I was groped tonight, all for the greater good and continuance of the puck race…no. You don’t get a dime. I’m donating it to the spay-and-neuter program at the local shelter. It seems appropriate.”
We were still on the block where the Ninth Circle was located—a decidedly nonhuman block. It was rare that one wandered down this way. What they didn’t know, they sensed: Here there be monsters. And with all the other supernatural creatures gone, it was empty as I’d ever seen it. “You are such a greedy bast…shit.”
I’d seen the glitter of metal and the flicker of movement all at once, leaping straight down from the top of the building we were walking past. I threw myself to one side, Nik to the other, and it landed directly between us. The concrete of the street cracked into pieces beneath it.
The force and the weight to cause that…I was already unloading my Desert Eagle’s normal hollow-points to replace them with explosive rounds especially made for my gun and especially made for this situation. I landed on my hip just as I jammed the new clip home and then was I loaded but locked? Hell, no. I was ready to fire. It had taken barely a second, and I thought that would give me time to get a good aim on what was pissed off that it hadn’t been invited to the party.
I was wrong. A second wasn’t long enough. It was already lunging through the air and about to drop on top of me. All I still saw was the sheen of metal, but, frankly, I didn’t care what it was made of except for what I could best use against it. I rolled flat on my back, aimed the Eagle straight up, and emptied the clip, all eight rounds. I closed my eyes. At that close proximity, I had no desire to be blinded by the small explosions. The only way I knew it had worked was that nothing landed on me to squash me to a thin paste on the concrete.
My face was burned; I could feel the hot, tight pain of it, but that fell into the column of “shit that can wait.” I opened my eyes, sat up, and saw it, for the first time, really saw it as it stood. It was shaped like a man, more or less, but it was metal, and not any kind I’d seen. There were scales shaped like the head of a spear but at least two feet long and one foot wide, and they looked to be encrusted with dried blood, and in the thin cracks between the metal plates there was a red-hot substance that I’d swear was lava. There was the faintest smell of sulfur to it, but the smell of old blood was stronger. It stood nine feet tall at least, giving a boggle a run for its money. The majority of it was black metal with a face accented with what looked like dark tarnished iron, but wasn’t. That would have been affected by the explosive rounds to some extent, but it hadn’t been. Although at least it had been blown backward before it hit me, I didn’t see a single dent in its chest or face—only a superficial blackening of the metal. There was a type of metal cowl surrounding its head like a helmet, eyes of the same lava that ran through it, and a snarl of metal lips that showed the tips of pointed black fangs.