The darkness retracted. I shook my head to clear it, like I had awakened from a dream. An odd sensation of disappointment swept over me as Uno stood between me and Jark. The heat inside me subsided. I had no idea what I was thinking. I wasn’t going to fight Jark. Even if the dark mass could be controlled, I sure as hell didn’t know how to do it, no matter how much it wanted out.
Uno howled. It wasn’t directed at me, but chills ran up my arm anyway. The dark thing in my head withdrew, like a predator disappointed its prey was escaping. Uno crouched. Jark shouted, more an involuntary yelp, and ran toward the channel. Uno followed for a few feet, then stopped and barked at Jark’s retreating back. He turned and loped toward me.
Joe yanked on my collar as he hovered up. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
I pushed him away. “It’s okay, Joe.”
He grappled with my hand. “Don’t you know what that is?”
Uno sat in the snow and sniffed the air. With a soft huff, he ducked to scratch his nose on the ground. He lifted his head, snow speckling his dark muzzle. He was suddenly the least threatening hellhound on the planet.
“It’s okay, Joe. I’d like you to meet Uno.”
Uno jumped and put his massive paws on my shoulders, woofing at Joe as if he understood what I said. I staggered under the weight as I dug my fingers into his thick fur and scratched.
A terrified smile froze on Joe’s face. He laughed nervously. With a flat, stiff hand, he patted Uno on the head. “Nice doggie.”
Uno dropped and rolled in the snow. I stared down the access road. Jark was nowhere to be seen. Murdock promised he’d call, and I had to let him play this out his way. I balled my hands in my pockets and started walking.
Joe fluttered around me. “That was kinda awesome. You should keep that dog. I mean, as long as it doesn’t suck your soul or something.”
“I can barely keep you in Oreos, Joe. I don’t think a dog would be a good idea for me.”
“Still. You could take it for walks and people would talk to you and be friendly and pretend not to notice you’re holding a bag of shite when you run into them. It’s a very civilized thing to have a dog.”
“I don’t think he’s that kind of dog, Joe. Let’s go find a drink.”
Joe flew around in front of me, throwing looks back at Uno. “Yeah, I need about a dozen.”
25
In the cold of the empty street, I swayed in front of the warehouse door. The yellow crime-scene tape across it fluttered and shivered in the wake of small puffs of wind, slashes of color across the entrance that warned people off at the same time they lured me closer. A feeling had been building in me all night as Joe and I drank. I had known him all my life, but there were tales I didn’t know about him. Dark ones that he hinted at in ominous yet nonchalant tones. He had done things he didn’t like to talk about but managed to accept them as part of his history. Whatever those acts were, somehow he remained content with who he was and happy to move on. I wasn’t at the point with myself yet. Certainly not tonight, on a bleak stretch of road where I found myself after leaving Joe snoring in a pretzel bowl.
Two kinds of people walked the streets of the Weird in the middle of the night: those up to no good thing and those down to one last thing. Both had the tinge of desperation about them that drove the need and desire to go out in the darkness and accomplish whatever deed necessary to satisfy them. Standing in front of a warehouse door with crime-scene tape across it, I wasn’t sure which category I fell in. It was easy to rationalize that my motivations were good, which allowed me to slice open the tape and push open the door. It was equally true that I was breaking the law. Which brought me to that one last thing—I didn’t think had a choice.
When I’d faced Jark down by the harbor terminal, I wanted to hurt him. Not hurt him as the side effect of stopping him from committing a crime or hurt him in the process of stopping a fight. I wanted to hurt him for the sake of hurting him. No matter how much I tried to rationalize it, I wanted to hurt him for the pleasure of it. I didn’t know if it was me, though. I didn’t know if on some suppressed animal brain level I wanted to hurt him, and the dark mass exposed that baser instinct, or if the dark mass, for its own reasons, wanted to hurt him and use me as its instrument.
I had to know. I had to go back to the one person who might have that answer.
The leanansidhe’s chamber reflected her sad and solitary life. Dust caked in dark gray on surfaces that weren’t touched. Dirt was tracked everywhere, the side effect of living underground and the leanansidhe’s indifference to it. The glass lamp’s shade speckled the nearby furniture in golds and red. A jumbled assortment of blankets layered a bed in the corner. The stale air held the electric whiff thrown off by a small heater running full blast by the side chair.
The leanansidhe had gathered mundane ephemera throughout the room—a bowl of key chains, a box of gloves, stacks of playing cards. They were either trophies of her kills or the by-products of an obsessive-compulsive mind. Haphazard stacks of books covered three tables. No common theme ran through the titles, everything from pulp detective novels from the 1950s to studies of irrigation systems in the Midwest. They seemed collected for the sake of collecting, many soiled with dirt or blood, their pages swollen from old moisture.
Forlorn. That was the overall impression. The nature of her existence was depressing. We all played the hand we’re dealt, but when that hand made you a murderer and you had a modicum of conscious mind, it had to weigh on you. If it didn’t, that made you something less than humane.
Her essence permeated the room, probably the only place she allowed it to remain, but nothing indicated anything more than a hideout. A lair. The room had a distinct lack of feyness. No grimoires or spell references, no major ward stones. Not even a stray wand. It was as if her entire life was about hiding, with no interest beyond that.
I sat in the same chair that I had the other night and flipped through a well-thumbed decorating magazine by the armchair, imagined her poring over it, wondering about sun-filled windows and flower-stuffed vases. Was she envious? Perplexed? Or was it a safe way of understanding the living environment of her prey? Studying their habitat in order to set a trap for them?
She was watching, I knew. When you fear being killed in your sleep, you made arrangements to protect yourself. I didn’t have wards all over my apartment building for peace of mind alone. Even if she wasn’t there when I arrived, she had to have some kind of warning system that her space had been violated.
“Are you going to watch me all evening?” I asked.
I heard a soft gasp and a chuckle from near the bed. A hand appeared from a narrow fissure in the wall, and she peered in at me, her face tentative, yet avid. “You return, brother.”
“I have more questions,” I said.
She crept across the floor in plain sight, hid behind one of the tables, and stretched her neck up above the books. “Druse has questions, too, my brother. Why did you flee so? Shall I bring the rat for you? It is yours. It was always yours. Druse swears this.”
The idea that a dead rat was somewhere in the room was not something I wanted to dwell on. “I meant no offense. Please accept the rat as my apology.”
She ducked down behind the books and muttered. Hospitality rules among the old fey were complicated. In certain quarters, offering a guest a gift was required and refusing it brought shame. With matters of honor and apology, the same sort of thing happened. When the rules conflicted, things got interesting. I hoped this particular complication would not end up with a rat in my pocket.