Ramsay uttered these words in the back of the van as McCann drove him, Sam and Chisholm into the town. The Chicagoan's sense of humour had been on the wane since they'd left Singapore, and now his face was nothing but a mask of resolute, implacable hatred. His moment had come. Once more he reasserted that nobody else, nobody, would deliver the killing blow tonight. Nobody but him.
"I said it on the plane, I'll say it one more time. The bloodsucker is mine. I'm staking my claim. I've waited five goddamn years for this. You two are welcome to come with. I'll appreciate your support. But so help me, if either of you gets in my way when we have the thing cornered, you better damn well get out of it, or else. It's me and the Lamia, OK? For my little boy's sake. For Ethan. Me and that monster. To the death."
Sam said nothing, just nodded to show that she understood; Chisholm likewise.
McCann parked in a leafy residential square, and the Titans put their helmets on and powered up. Tethys, Hyperion and Oceanus exited from the back doors, and the hunt for the Lamia began.
Much like Singapore, Bruges was deserted after dark, the streets abandoned by its inhabitants, indoors seeming altogether a safer and more sensible place to be. The belfry of the Belfort-Hallen rang out every fifteen minutes, its carillon playing tunes to parcel out the hours, but it seemed nobody was out and about to hear, other than the three Titans.
"I know that one," Oceanus remarked, as the bells tolled half past midnight. "Bugger me, it's 'Danny Boy.'" He joined in. "'The pipes, the pipes are ca-all-ling.'"
"Hey," said Hyperion. "Zip it."
"Only having a bit of a singalong."
"Well, don't."
Oceanus bristled. "Now hold on a moment. Who are you to — "
Behind Hyperion's back, Sam made an air-patting gesture. Leave it.
Oceanus jutted his jaw, but relented.
They traversed several low bridges, weapons trained on the canals below. The water was mirror-motionless, black as oil. Mist drifted up from it in thready swirls.
"Come on out, Lamia," Hyperion muttered. "Show your face. I got something for you."
The "something" was the rocket launcher that he carried slung over his back, a Daedalus special, short enough that the user could flip it forward, slot the rocket in, and assume firing position in one easy manoeuvre. Its effectiveness in the field had been proved twice, first against the Sphinx, then against the Chimera. The projectiles' thermobaric warheads, designed to stop armoured vehicles and penetrate masonry, made mincemeat of monsters. Overkill? Hyperion would argue that under these circumstances there was no such thing.
"Movement," said Oceanus.
"Where?" said Hyperion.
"Your eleven."
"Got it."
The Titans had just crossed yet another bridge, having performed almost a complete circuit of the central part of the city. On the corner of a narrow street up ahead, Sam could see what looked like an arm — waving? Reaching up? She could also, now, detect an intermittent hissing noise.
Hyperion swung the launcher, already loaded, onto his shoulder and advanced. Back at Bleaney, Landesman advised caution. Sam followed Hyperion, machine gun at the ready. She kept to his left side, steering well clear of the launcher's rear end. Thanks to her battlesuit the backblast wouldn't kill her but it would certainly knock her off her feet.
The hissing continued, reminding Sam of the sound the Gorgons had made. Perhaps they and the Lamia were related, members of the same composite woman/snake species. But the Lamia was a stealth predator. Its modus operandi was to creep up on its prey and latch on, injecting them with a venom that served as a muscle relaxant before it took its fill of their blood. Why would it be making any noise? Why alert anyone to its presence in this way?
Hyperion rounded the corner, adopting a feet-spread firing stance.
"Ah shit," he said. Angry, disappointed. "One of them."
Sam joined him, and found a scared teenage boy cowering before him. The teenager's face was covered with a balaclava, and in his hand was an aerosol can. On the wall beside him, part of the facade of a chocolate shop, were two freshly painted concentric O's. He hadn't yet managed to add the diagonal line that would complete the Agonides symbol.
"Please, don't shoot!" the teenager begged. "I am good kid. No threat. Just doing my thing."
"I'm not going to shoot," Hyperion assured him. "What do you mean, your thing?"
"I must paint ten of these, ten logos around the city, then I am able to join Agonides as full member. It's my — I'm not sure of the word." The teenager's English carried a Flemish accent, not dissimilar to a Netherlands accent. Word came out voord.
"Initiation."
"Yes! Initiation."
"It's dangerous out here at night," Sam said.
"True," said the teenager, "but in daytime police would try to stop me. At night, no police."
"You'd rather risk death than being arrested."
He shrugged. "What we do — it is worth dying for." Through the balaclava eyeholes Sam saw his gaze turn inquisitive. "But who are you people? Not army. Not proper army."
"We're no one," said Hyperion. "Ghosts. We don't exist. Got that? Now run home and forget you ever saw us."
"Ghosts…" A light of comprehension dawned in the teenager's eyes. "I know! I know it! You are them!" he exclaimed. "The ones. The monster killers. That is right, no? The ones who do the Griffin, the Sphinx… The Sirens also, I think. It is on the news today. And now the Lamia. You're here to kill her too."
"It," Hyperion corrected him. "Kill it. Now what part of 'run home' did I not say clearly enough for you to understand, son?"
"Please, I must shake your hands. You are heroes to us. We Agonides, we are talking about you the whole time. We love you. Many people love you. You are big buzz online. Go to the chat rooms, the forums, you'll see. Our leaders do not like you. They say you are bad. You are too much making waves. But the people, they know you are doing good thing. And the Olympians next? First the monsters, then the assholes who say they are gods but are not? That is the plan?"
"I'm not going to tell you," said Hyperion. "And I'm not going to be shaking any hands either. Just scram, kid. I mean it."
The teenager produced a mobile phone from his back pocket. "A picture. So I can post it online and show everyone who you are. Proof that you exist. The world needs to see you."
"For God's sake don't let him," said Landesman.
"Gimme that." Hyperion reached for the phone.
"Um, Tethys, Hyperion…" came Oceanus's voice, quaverily over the comms. "Help."
They turned.
"I'm sorry," Oceanus croaked. "Came up from behind. Didn't see."
The Lamia had him. A glistening trail of canal water led from the parapet of the bridge to where the monster now was, draped around Oceanus. Its snakelike lower half enveloped him to the waist like the coils of some immense boa constrictor. Its womanlike upper half clutched his torso, pinning his arms to his sides in a muscular embrace. He was helpless. The Lamia had torn off the rubberised gorget which protected his neck. Now its mouth was latched onto his exposed throat, and its venom was already taking effect. Oceanus writhed feebly in its clutches but, even with the added strength from his battlesuit, his efforts were in vain. The Lamia's head bobbed slightly as it drank deeply from his jugular.
Without hesitating, Hyperion sighted the rocket launcher on the monster.
"Hyperion!" Sam snapped. "What the hell are you doing?"
"What needs to be done," Hyperion said, off-comms. Launch lever down. Finger on trigger. "He's as good as dead already."