The Devil's Daughter Complete Box Set, page 86
part #1 of The Devil's Daughter Series
He held the case to his chest. “True, but between your crew guarding the unfortunates and the harvester sites collecting body parts in exchange for freedom, there won’t be as many of us to hunt. Of course, some of the harvesters will volunteer for the Cormorant’s cause, but most of those fiends aren’t exactly joiners. The average street harvester will become desperate, and that’s never good.”
“If you’re so paranoid about what the harvesters will do, why not keep the coin for yourself?”
His smile made her feel like a woman who’d just accepted a drink from the wrong guy at a bar. “You’re forgetting that I got you into the party tonight. You’re my ace in the hole, Doppel Avenger. You owe me. Besides, now I know the players. I could tell the Laroques about you, or if a harvester started carving into me, I might tell them where to find you.”
“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”
“Like either one of us knows what that is.” He turned toward the river. “Stay safe, my guardian angel.”
She held the violin by the neck and tightened the bow string before heading deeper into the Garden District. Without a sword, the thin wooden ax-shaped fiddle and garrote-like bow would be all she had for defense until she reached her motorcycle’s arsenal.
Freed from her connection to Dooly and feeling ganged up on as a result of the union of the two powerful women and dejected about the loss of her savior, all Doodlebug wanted was to get back to her simple life of hunting harvesters in the Quarter.
The feeling of being alone was nothing new to her. Even among the crowd Dooly hung out with, the real girl maintained a healthy mistrust of those around her. As the girl’s mirror in hell, Doodlebug had even less of a reason to put her faith in the human shadows that surrounded her. Experience had taught her that everyone was out for themselves and imagining anything different was a sure way of getting hurt or killed.
She hadn’t trusted Nocturne when he’d approached her about forming an alliance with the Cormorant, so it wasn’t a huge letdown when the birdwoman had joined forces with Marjory Laroque. At least neither of them had mentioned going after the Doppel Avenger. That might change if Doodlebug kept decapitating harvesters, or worse, if someone discovered that she had access to the professor’s laboratory. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“You need an ally,” Dooly said.
Doodlebug yanked off the headband she’d absentmindedly put on with the trench coat. She didn’t need advice from the peanut gallery in life. Her thoughts weren’t meant to be shared, even if she was speaking them out loud. “I’m still a small fry compared to the big fish those two women are after. So long as they’re still focused on finding Sere, I just need to stay out of their sights. The longer I spend trying to figure out what to do, however, the more time Marjory will have to create her immortal. Damn it, Dooly is right.” Other than the street people, however, Doodlebug couldn’t see any options regarding who she could turn to in hell.
If one of her contingents had been discovered walking the streets alone and unarmed like Doodlebug was doing, they would have earned a firm reprimand, but she found the combination of danger and solitude oddly comforting. She could be killed at any moment, releasing her from the mission of saving the world for the reals. Without Sere, Doodlebug wondered how long she should continue the useless quest. “Like I even care what happens to them. Other than Dooly, there’s no one on that side of the curtain I truly need. Even Sere used me more as her fighting cock in this hell arena than giving me the respect of a fellow warrior.”
Tossing off the melancholy was as ineffective as shaking the unending rain from her soaking-wet hair. Like the perpetual night, the feeling of despair devoured any attempt at brightening her spirit. But also like the forever darkness, it hid her in its shared cloak of the damned. “These feelings must be some spiritual hangover from mirroring Dooly.”
She tossed the bird mask into the overflowing storm drain. Sere hadn’t been working alone. So long as Doodlebug remained loyal to the warrior’s cause, she maintained her Get Out of Hell card—if she could just find someone in life to honor it. Selfishness, like despair, was one thing every doppelgänger shared. No one would fault her for wanting something better, even if that salvation was denied every other member of her society.
“Give me your coin.” From the angle of the knife tip that penetrated too low against the back of her ribs, Doodlebug assessed that her assailant wasn’t a skilled assassin.
She leaned back slightly to test her theory. A professional would have allowed the knife to cut into her. The guy behind her eased off of his pressure. It would be easy to just give it to him. You don’t need it. In response as much to the unwanted thought as the physical danger, Doodlebug lunged forward, away from the blade, swung to her right, trapped the back of the doppelgänger boy’s neck with the curve of the violin, and set the bow against his throat. She drew the course horsehair across his neck like a sword to emphasis her willingness to cut his head from his neck.
His knife splashed into the water at their feet. “Please don’t.” His whimpering was music to her ears.
“Why shouldn’t I? You were about to gut me. You entitled rich brats think you can take whatever you want.” She leaned in and ran the rosin-coated horsehair over his Adam’s apple.
“I’m begging you for mercy. I never would have stabbed you. I just needed the coin.”
She kept the bow at his throat. “How did you know about the coin? The party just let out.”
“Mr. Gerald put out word that the buskers leaving the event had stolen special medallions and he’d pay to get them back.”
She probably shouldn’t have been surprised. “Lying son of a…” She let up on the tension just enough for the boy to wiggle free. He ran off into the storm so fast she doubted she could have caught him even with her motorcycle.
78
Chapter 9
Back in her own clothes and with her weapons at hand, she pushed the motorcycle back to the street. It wasn’t until she got on and fired up the beast that she realized she didn’t know where to go. “Even if I am done living in the Crown Astoria, I’ll still need someplace close to the river.”
Her swords dangled against her legs like dogs begging to be taken out to play, and after the upscale party, she was itching for a fight. With just the slightest twist of the throttle, the Honda crept down the tree-covered residential street like a great cat stalking its prey. “Where there’s one arrogant prick out to pick pockets, there’s sure to be more.”
A block ahead, she heard the procession of performers heading home to the Bywater. In the shadows, a gang of snobby-rich thugs kept pace with the newly affluent buskers. She pulled out her sickle and turned its sharp edge toward the kids as she asked herself, “Dismember them or simply knock them to their knees?” Though the Laroque family may have double-crossed the hired help, turning their children to dust would only worsen relations between the classes—even if the kids did regenerate back in their rooms where they belonged. The Cormorant and Marjory didn’t need an obvious reason to renege on their agreement to save average doppelgängers. Hearing of the Doppel Avenger chopping off heads in the Garden District wouldn’t calm tensions. She flipped the curved sword around and gunned the motorcycle’s engine.
Though modified for nearly silent running, the angry huffing that sounded like a rabbit in attack mode made the entitled runts turn away from those they hunted. She swung the dull edge at the nearest entitled prick, clocking him on the chin and sending him tumbling into the hedges. The noise was enough to command the attention of the buskers. The street kids from the Bywater never shied away from a good fight. They were on the rich brats like rats on freshly discarded expensive cheese. “Watch your backs,” she yelled. “They’re after your coins.”
As she passed the melee, she opened up the throttle. If the medallions were lures, the puppets in the Quarter needed to be warned about the hooks hidden inside. Anyone holding one of the coins would be a marked doppelgänger, and if they earned the disk of gold by visiting a harvester collection site, missing a body part would make them easy prey. “I’ll bet anything this whole coin charade was designed to toughen up Marjory’s young heirs by turning loose their killer instincts. Those soft pansies in hell would make lousy demons in life.”
The never-ending lightning from the World Trade Center made her hunch low over the gas tank. Sparks of electricity zapped out of the walls at every moving creature. “If I avoid the streets and keep to the walking path on the levee, I should avoid most of the war zone on Decatur. No point in advertising my presence before entering the heart of the action.”
At the ferry terminal, she skipped the motorcycle over the streetcar tracks and headed up to the wide, seldom-used promenade. Wind whipped off the river, causing her to lean the motorcycle, but on the high ground, she didn’t have to contend with the city’s usual two feet of water. At a wide break in the storm wall, she eased the superbike into a deserted parking lot. Bordering the other side was Decatur Street. Black capes flapped like sheets hung on a line, blocking the view of the shops and the doppelgänger-harvester battle.
“It’s a bad one over there.” Arnaud lay against the concrete wall with blood gushing from his elbow. Fortunately, the rest of his arm was still attached, if only barely. In time, he would heal.
Showing sympathy for the wounded, even one of her contingents, never helped win a war. “Any new gossip on the streets?” She didn’t want to start any rumors by inadvertently hinting at anything that had happened at the high-class soiree.
“Desperation is the fertilizer that feeds hope in a doppelgänger’s soul.”
She shook her head in irritation. “Your real must be one horribly drunk poet. What have you heard?”
“I was just trying to give our doppelbrethren the benefit of insanity.” He tried to stand but failed. “Promises of peace, golden tickets of safety, escapes from hell—you know the drill.”
“And the harvesters?”
He held his arm like that was going to do any good. “Same old story. Give in, let them take just a little finger, and all will be golden. The flip side is that anyone seen with a guard contingent will be treated as prime targets.”
“So join or suffer the consequences.” Doodlebug wondered how much worse her situation could get. “Tell our people to keep an eye on what the harvesters are doing. If the Cormorant is serious about peace—which I strongly doubt—we need to know what her harvesters will be up to if not hunting down victims. My bet is she has plans for them elsewhere. Also, the rumor about golden coins keeping doppelgängers safe from harvesters is exactly as fishy as it sounds. Holding on to one of the doubloons will only attract trouble.”
“I’ll let everyone know. What about you?” His concern for her was as uncomfortable as stepping into a floating ball of fire ants.
“I need a new place to hole up. The hotel on Canal is getting a little too well noticed.”
He nodded toward the lower Quarter. “There’s the old Mint. It’s built like a fortress.”
Being at the edge of the Quarter had its advantages, but she would be too low to keep an eye on the river. “I’d like something with more of a bird’s-eye view if you get my drift.”
“There are a couple of old warehouses in the Bywater that are used as artists’ lofts. They can get a bit busy, though.” Clearly, Arnaud didn’t have any more insight that she did.
“I’ll figure something out.”
He pointed back the way she’d come. “If you want tall and empty…”
She looked at the monstrously huge tower. “That wound must be deeper than I thought because you’re clearly out of your mind.”
“No, not that. I meant the casino. No one ever goes in there, and it has a commanding view of the river.”
Each time she’d snuck past the World Trade Center, the dangers emitted from the structure had blocked the garish out-of-place casino from her thoughts. “You might have an idea there.”
Doodlebug zoomed her motorcycle up the marble ramp toward the grand entrance of the Palladium Casino. Hurricane-proof glass doors parted like the gates to heaven. Without a single doppelgänger in sight, she held the throttle wide open—leaving muddy tire tracks down the wave-patterned carpet. Every neon bulb, from the gaming machines to the wall art, glowed from the energy field put off by the nearby World Trade Center.
At the wood-framed mirrored doors of the tower’s elegant elevator, she skidded to a stop. “I wonder how much of this casino is functional.” She pressed the up button, not really expecting a response. The door slid open as silently and smoothly as the entrance to the Batcave.
She wheeled the bike inside and turned it in the overly abundant space to face the door. A double row of lit buttons announced her choices. She played her fingers over the display. “I need something high enough to see what’s going on, but I don’t want to feel like a bird displayed in her cage.” She settled on the glowing number thirteen, feeling like she’d just placed a bet rather than choosing a temporary residence.
When the elevator opened, she wondered if she’d hit the penthouse button by mistake. Instead of a hallway filled with nondescript hotel doors, she faced a set of double doors wide enough to wheel in a grand piano. She pushed the bike halfway out of the lift and set it on its kickstand to keep the automatic door from closing. “This place is too nice to just be sitting empty, waiting for tourists. If some member of the Laroque clan is using this as their pied-a-terre, I’m going to need a quick exit.”
She pulled a sickle from her belt and eased it between the two doors. With a firm twist, she silently defeated the lock. As she stepped into the dark suite, a bird flapped off of the balcony railing outside of the sliding glass doors at the far end of the room. “Yeah, go tell your mistress where I am. It’s about time we had a talk.”
She flipped on the switch to the chandelier hanging from the center of the multilayered ceiling. Unlike her previous accommodations at the Crown Astoria, the carpets didn’t squish under her feet, the air wasn’t so thick with mold that it burned her nose, and there were no dark corners for unseen dangers to lurk. “Not bad digs for a girl from the street. I’m going to have to watch that I don’t get too soft living in luxury.”
She edged the blade through the bedroom door before easing it open. Reaching out with the sickle, she tapped the wall switch. Discreetly hidden lights came on over the king-sized bed. “I suppose it could be some lothario’s seldom-used secret lair.”
She snuck into a bathroom bigger than her previous apartment, half-expecting to see a line of cologne bottles on the counter. To both her relief and frustration, the area had only the essentials, neatly organized as if expecting a new guest. Though she doubted that anyone who had gone to all the trouble of setting the trap so artfully would bother hiding in the closet, she leaned her back against the door and turned the knob as gently as she could. Once again, she slipped the sword in and used it for switching on the light before entering, and once again, she found everything inside the walk-in closet exactly as it should be.
“I’m letting my paranoia get the better of me.” She stashed the weapon back in her belt and headed for the front door to retrieve her motorcycle. “The only two people powerful enough to set a trap this luxurious would be Madam Laroque or the Cormorant. Of the two, my money would be on the big bird, and since I need to see her anyway, there’s no point in hiding.” She wheeled the bike into the grand bathroom away from any windows and removed her weapons. Like gambling, fighting involved acting without considering how many resources remained. Once safe and alone, however, she needed to inventory what she had left and make sure everything was in combat condition.
Free of the gun and swords that reminded her of her situation, an irrational desire to run and jump on the oversized bed took hold of her legs. At the far corner of the mattress, she leapt into the air and spread out her arms. Landing on the thick cushion, she took one bounce and flipped onto her back.
A loud flapping from the bedroom balcony had her back on her feet like a scalded cat. Damn it, Dooly, I’ve taken on too much of your girly foolishness.
Standing outside of the heavy glass doors, the Cormorant looked down her long beak at Doodlebug like a visiting dignitary too important to bother knocking.
Doodlebug reached for the sword handle that wasn’t there. If she wanted to kill me, it’s not like I could stop her even with a blade in my hand. She marched to the door and opened it to the storm. “I assume your little bird told you where to find me.”
The Cormorant stood in the enclosed veranda and ruffled her feathers to clear off the raindrops. “I heard through my harvesters that you wanted to meet.” She pushed passed Doodlebug into the bedroom as if she owned the place. “Tell your ragtag street warriors to lay down their weapons and worship me. I promise they won’t be hurt. If you cooperate, I’ll even let them keep their limbs.”
Not that Doodlebug expected niceties from the self-proclaimed goddess, but busting in and making demands was rude no matter the dimension. “Covering your bases? Word on the street is that you and Marjory Laroque had a productive meeting. I’m not sure I want to be a pawn in your little power play, and I’m certainly not unilaterally laying down my arms, literally or figuratively.”
The feathers along the birdwoman’s neck and shoulders stood on end. “I’m not used to being questioned.”
Doodlebug could just imagine how uncomfortable the private meeting had been between the two women. She turned away from the door to the balcony without closing it, hoping the Cormorant would take the hint that this wasn’t going to be a long conversation. “Well, I’m not bowing down to you. I could try to lie about it, but we both know doppelgängers aren’t very good at telling untruths.”
