Suicide Kings, page 9
“More or less,” he says.
“All right. Instead of ripping through your skin with a needle and thread we’re gonna do it the right way.” He places one hand about an inch over each of the rib slices, casts a spell, and I feel a weird sensation, like a jacket being zipped up.
The slices have been replaced with new, pink skin. He tapes Steri-Strips over everything and transparent Tegaderm patches over those.
“This shit’s still gotta heal,” he says. “It’ll be fast, maybe four or five days, but only if you don’t fuck with it. You go getting yourself into more fights, there’s no guarantees.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Yeah, whatever. Attila, anything else?”
“No, thank you, Walter. I appreciate you coming in on such short notice.”
“Sure thing. And you”—he looks me up and down—“I don’t know what the fuck you are, but you creep me out.” He grabs his bag and pushes his way past Werther.
“The fuck was that all about?”
“Walter is a physician I have on retainer,” he says. “He can be brusque, but he does good work.”
“If that’s brusque, I don’t want to know what qualifies as an asshole.”
“There’s an adage about pots and kettles,” Werther says, “but I don’t recall what it is just now.”
“Fine. Yes, I get your point. And thank you.” Not having to sew myself up feels a little alien, but I’ll take it.
Werther comes over to the bench to look at the razor. “May I?” he says.
“Knock yourself out.” He picks it up, unfolds it. For the most part it looks ordinary. It’s straight-razor-shaped, at least. The handle is mother of pearl with brass fittings, the blade has whorl patterns in it like Damascus steel. A line of runes is carved into the blade, a language I don’t recognize.
“I haven’t seen this thing in ages,” Werther says. “You know we locked it up for a reason.”
“I been meaning to ask you about that. You and my grandfather built the storage unit, right?”
“Oh, a whole cadre of people,” he says. “Sadly, most of them died in the war.” He folds the blade and places it back onto the bench. “Most of the items in there were shipped over from England after the war. Some of the more dangerous pieces we moved after Dunkirk. Like that razor.”
“Don’t worry, it’s going right back in the box I pulled it out of,” I say.
“No, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Werther says.
“That sounds ominous.”
I grab a thin towel from a stack, step into the shower, and close the curtain. The water pressure sucks, but much as I adore walking around covered in blood, it’s starting to lose its charm. I let the water soak into the pants for a bit before I try to peel them off.
“You’re the first person to use that blade in over a hundred years,” Werther says. “You’ve spilt blood with it. You’ve murdered with it. It’s consecrated and bound. It’s yours whether you want it or not. It’s never going to be far, no matter where you are.”
“What, like a puppy?”
“I’ve heard it described that way, yes. Or a very annoying cat. Be careful about who you let handle it. One wrong move and they might kill themselves just opening it up.”
“What about me? Am I gonna lop off a hand if I nick my thumb?”
“You’ll be fine. You can even shave with it if you want. If you don’t want it to kill, it won’t.”
“Well, that’s handy.”
Beats a Nazi murder gun that wants to kill everything. Had a Browning Hi-Power from the war, before the Belgians started sabotaging their own factories. It hadn’t started talking to me yet, but it was damn near. I could feel its emotional states and they were never good. It was destroyed when I killed Darius. Good riddance.
“I’m not here to talk to you about dead people and angry razorblades,” Werther says. “I wanted to ask, ‘Now what?’ ”
“Well, I’m gonna finish getting cleaned up, put some pants on. Probably go get a burger or something.” I know what he’s talking about, I just don’t want to think about it.
“You just murdered one of the most powerful mages in all of Western Europe as the proxy of the daughter of one of the most powerful mages in the Americas, in full view of at least twenty thousand people and easily two or three million more streaming the fight on hidden YouTube channels.”
“Fuck.” I knew it was going to be bad. I didn’t know it was going to be this bad.
“Indeed. I don’t think you can claim to be apolitical anymore,” he says. “So, now what?”
That’s a good question. My life has been upside down since I came back. Now it’s taken a sudden left turn into territory I have only the barest understanding of.
No matter how many times I run water through my hair, it keeps streaming to the shower floor tinted a dull rust. Did Elizabeth Bathory have this problem? Screw it. I finish and start toweling off.
“You tell me,” I say. “I don’t know what any of this really means. I know I already had a reputation.”
“In Los Angeles, absolutely. Now it’ll be the world. Right now, people are trying to figure out who you are, where you came from, whether any of the rumors about you are true, and just how terrified of you they should be.”
“As long as one of those rumors is ‘he’s hung like a bear,’ I’m okay with it.”
“A lot of people respect you now, whether they like you or not. A lot more are simply frightened. And some are going to come at you to make a name for themselves. I’d hate to see you die like some Old West gunfighter.”
“What, ambushed in a saloon and shot in the back of the head during a card game or penniless with tuberculosis? I don’t play poker and I take my vitamins.”
“Joke all you like—”
“I will,” I say. “I have to or I’ll start screaming. There are whole states I can’t set foot in without risking my hide. I have pissed off one or more very powerful people in every major city east of the Rockies and more than a few minor ones. Other countries, too. Mages in Port Au Prince would love to see me fed to sharks, but they’ll have to get in line behind the Cubans who want to do the same thing. This really isn’t any different than what I deal with now.”
I learned that paranoia pays years ago. Getting out of Los Angeles after I’d killed Jean Boudreau was a crash course in how not to get murdered. Word had been spreading that I’d taken him down and some of his people thought if they could bring my head to the new boss they’d get a seat at the table. Trouble was, the new boss was the one who told me to get out of the city. Not that he was any help, of course. If they’d brought him my body filled with holes, I don’t think he’d have minded. I survived through luck, desperation, and paranoia. And I see no reason to change things now.
“You might see a higher class of killer than you’re used to,” he says. “But younger and brasher is my guess. At a certain level of notoriety, we all run into them eventually. In this case, though, a lot of people are going to think you’re allied with my family.”
I get out of the shower with the towel around my waist, pull a change of clothes out of the locker, and start to get dressed. For once they’re not completely covered in blood.
“Yeah, I figured that part out on my own, thanks.” I realized that would happen the moment I decided to take on Otto. I don’t like it, but as mages go, Attila’s not that bad, and there’s actually a chance Amanda won’t grow up to be a raging asshole.
“I can help with some of that,” Werther says. “By way of saying thank you, I’ve set up an account for you offshore with two million dollars in it and signed over the deed to a property in Big Sur.”
“I don’t need the money,” I say. “Or a place in Big Sur. I didn’t do this for anything like that.” And then it clicks. “You’ve leaked this information already, haven’t you. You’re making me look like a mercenary for hire instead of your bitch.”
“Colorfully phrased, but yes,” he says. “This should throw a bit of a wrench in how people see you. Some will still believe we’re allied, but word should get around that you’re an independent contractor, not under the Werthers’ thumb. I’d suggest moving some money back and forth through that account. Maybe sell the property. No doubt someone has already hacked into the account and is watching to see what you do with it.”
“Appreciate it.” I sit down to tie my shoes.
“Not to undo what I’ve just done, but I have a proposition for you.”
“Will it make things worse?”
“Undoubtedly. My family is in town for a conclave. One of them is going to try to kill Amanda. I’d rather that not happen.” I don’t ask him how he knows. He’s probably just playing the odds.
“I thought you couldn’t kill each other.”
“During the conclave most of the restrictions are eased.”
“What keeps you all from murdering each other during a conclave?”
“There’s still a restriction against directly murdering each other. But if we can get someone to pull the trigger for us, we can target whoever we want. That said, it’s mostly me. As the head of the family and the controller of the property where the conclave is being held, I have a certain amount of control. But constant infighting between alliances and factions inside the family helps. There’s no real unification. Any killing will be, if not discreet, at least not in public view.”
“You want a bodyguard for her,” I say.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Can you take some time to consider it?”
“Nope. Not my pig, not my farm. I helped Amanda because this whole thing was stupid and she was getting the shaft. She’s still young enough that maybe she won’t turn out to be a total prick like the rest of us. I’m sure she can do just fine on her own.”
“Think about it,” he says.
“Already have,” I say. I put my jacket on and head to the door, then stop. Something’s not adding up. Then it clicks.
“You don’t think Amanda’s in danger,” I say, “at least not any more than she usually is. You think somebody’s gonna kill you. If that happens, sure, she inherits, but then she’s stuck with your family. They won’t kill her, but they might try to manipulate her.”
“My daughter is far more formidable than they realize. But if something were to happen to me, I would like to see her surrounded by allies.”
“Jesus. You just paid me two million and a house to make it look like I was some gun-for-hire rather than a Werther ally, and now you want to invite me to the family reunion?”
“As security. Exactly the sort of thing a gun-for-hire would be hired for.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m not the guy you think I am and I’m sure as hell not the guy you need. Good luck this weekend. And keep your head down.”
“Aren’t you forgetting your puppy?” Werther says as I open the door. He’s holding the straight razor out to me.
“If it really wants to, it can catch up.”
Chapter 9
Everything hurts down into my bones. I knew this was going to be an ugly fight, but I don’t think I was prepared for just how ugly it got.
I don’t have a problem with having killed Otto, but I shouldn’t have underestimated him. Just because somebody’s a pompous fucknugget doesn’t mean they can’t kick your ass.
A fight like that, I usually don’t plan. Sure as hell don’t have an audience. Like in the alley with Reinhold last night. He tried to kill me, so I went and tried to kill him right back. It was honest. This felt a little . . . dishonorable? That’s not the word. Dammit, what is it? Cheap. It felt cheap.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d totally kill him again if I had to.
Walking from the locker room toward the exit I can definitely feel every one of the bruises I got in that fight. Bruises are part of the cost of doing business, but damn, these are pretty fucking epic.
As I get closer to the exit I can hear that the crowd hasn’t really thinned out much. I’ll have to pass by the betting booths. Christ, Alice, this whole layout is a fucking nightmare.
To be fair, usually there’s only maybe fifty people in here, drinking shitty beer and watching a couple of mages whale on each other. Weekends can top a couple hundred or so, but that’s nothing compared to this. I don’t know how they even staff for this.
I’m not in the mood to deal with a bunch of pissed-off mages who lost a lot of money because of me. I go to pull a HI, MY NAME IS sticker and a Sharpie out of my pocket and remember that I gave them to the bouncers. There’s got to be another exit.
Or I could just make my own. There aren’t any Haunts here and I only see a few Wanderers nearby. A couple Echoes of people who died in plane crashes, which are always weird. I can see the person, but not the plane. It’s like watching Superman do a nosedive into the tarmac.
I’m about to slide over when I hear someone say my name. I’m tired. It’s making me slow. As I turn to see who it is, I get a face full of fist.
It’s a solid right hook that connects on the side of my head, snapping it to the side and taking the rest of me with it. I stagger, get my footing, and catch the next punch in my hand, which I pump up with a strength spell. I hear bones pop.
Usually when that happens people make some noise, a scream, a grunt, something. But not this guy. At first I think I made a huge mistake and it wasn’t Otto whose head I cut off. This guy’s got all the same Aryan Nation features. Then I remember Hans was in the audience. Standing behind and a little further back is another man. The family resemblance is unmistakable, but he looks a lot more like Attila.
The guy I assume is Hans pulls his hand back for another shot and I let him have it. But not before hexing his fingers to burst into flame. Now he makes noise. His flaming hand has all his attention. He’s not prepared for my jab to his face or my foot in his nads.
Now he’s on the floor, on fire, with a busted nose and ruptured testicles. He doesn’t look like he knows which problem to deal with first.
“Nicely done,” the older man, who I’m assuming is Liam, says.
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you. This one’s even more of a shit than his brother. Liam Werther. I’d offer to shake hands, but I prefer mine to stay flame free.”
“Liam,” I say. “And that’s Hans?” The flame is spreading, though slowly. It’s easy to put out and it’s not going to do much more than hurt. He should be more worried about his nuts.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Liam says. “Oh, Hans, my boy, if you ever wondered if you were set on fire, would anyone so much as piss on you to put you out, I would say the answer is an emphatic no.”
Hans gets to his feet, glares at me, then runs back the way he came. Hobbles, really. Yeah, he needs to get his nuts looked at.
“He seems nice,” I say.
“He is a perfect example of the worst my family has to offer.”
“And you’re not so bad?”
“Oh, my boy, I’m ten times worse. We both know I’m not to be trusted and I won’t insult you by saying otherwise. But it doesn’t mean I can’t be civil about it.”
“I appreciate the honesty,” I say. “And in the spirit of transparency, I’m more than happy to murder you.”
“I, too, appreciate the honesty. I enjoyed the fight. Clever. I see your reputation is not unearned.”
“Which reputation is that?”
“Oh, I hear things now and then. I was in Vegas several years ago for a short bit. Your name came up quite a lot.”
I tense and force myself to relax, certain I didn’t manage it before he noticed. Vegas is one of those times in my life I prefer not to think about. I learned a lot in Vegas. Mostly that I shouldn’t be in Vegas.
Not a fan of the place. And that was before I lived there. It stinks of desperation, of people right on the brink of everything falling apart. It’s a good place for luck magic and spells that are stupidly ambitious, provided you’re okay when they fail spectacularly. I did a ritual like that once. It seemed to work fine, but I didn’t stick around to see how it all turned out.
“Haven’t been there in about thirty years,” I say. “Can’t imagine who would drop my name.”
“Oh, people,” he says, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “You made quite the impression on a few.”
“Must be thinking of somebody else,” I say. Alarm bells are going off in my head because there’s only one thing I ever did of note in Las Vegas.
Vegas is where I washed up when I bolted from L.A. after killing Jean Boudreau, the guy who murdered my parents. I laid low, assuming—rightly, as I would be reminded from time to time—that some of his old organization would come after me.
I was twenty years old and hadn’t gotten a lot of training from other necromancers, on account of having only met necromancers who either wouldn’t talk to me or who were actively trying to murder me. Everything I knew about my knack I’d learned on my own.
As luck would have it, the ghost of a necromancer was haunting a jail cell in a North Las Vegas police department. Guy got drunk, passed out, tossed in a cell and had a heart attack. Pretty embarrassing. I hung out a couple years until he’d pretty much said everything he was going to say and moved on. I just didn’t move on far enough fast enough.
I got in with a couple of psychopathic mages—redundant, I know—who needed a necromancer for a ritual. It was . . . unusual. And that’s saying something, for necromancy.
Only those two other people were there when I did the spell. Three if you count the guy whose head I had to cut off as part of it. Four if you count the demon I stuck in the head to keep his soul company.
Far as I know at least one of them is dead. And it’s not the guy missing his head. He was fine when I left him. Sort of.
