It was Martin that saved them from a grill session with the Anastasia family, not through his authority but through his subservience. By the time someone identified Barilla’s corpse, he was already treating Phyllis like the new dock boss, and the mafioso didn’t seem to care. As long as someone ran the rackets and paid their superiors, it didn’t matter who was in charge, and Martin’s presumption quickly became the facts. Men came by to talk to Phyllis about her factory and her street gangs in the roughest area of the roughest neighborhood in Brooklyn, and because she’d spent years working under Barilla, she was able to answer their secular questions and take command of the cleanup.
The Baron and Zombie wandered the property, taking the measure of the dead. CPUSA had lost around twenty men—fewer than the Baron expected after all that sound and fury. Most of them had died fighting; in testament to their desperation, one of them had even shot himself, unable to win and on the verge of capture.
The Zombie dug through their pockets, but none of the dead bodies carried identification. Even the half-wrecked CPUSA vehicles were barren, without documents or plates to identify their owners. There was no way to trace any of this back to the Soviets.
Meister Schuler was missing entirely, and nobody in the secular crews had seen a man in a bloodied, brick-dusted cassock. The Zombie guessed that the Diviner had fled the combat zone to avoid explaining himself to secular enforcers.
Phyllis assigned Martin to take the young gangsters home, and then she pulled aside the Baron and the Zombie and spoke to them just outside the front door. It’d been almost thirty minutes since Barilla’s death, and it shocked the Baron that nobody had called the police. Out here on Clinton Wharf, it seemed even a heavy shootout was completely ignored.
Phyllis explained this as best as she could. “If someone made a call and we found out, the boss above me would pay Murder Inc. to remind everyone that we keep D&D on the docks.”
“Deaf and dumb?” the Baron asked.
“If people want to live,” she said.
The Baron was finishing up the last good slice of his cigar. The rest would be too smoky to enjoy, at least for a man with a refined palate. He blew rings into the midday air. “We should find Barilla’s son soon,” he said between draws. “What’s his name?”
“Marco Barilla. Do you have a car?”
“Not in New York. Is Marco at home?”
“No, thank the gods. We couldn’t have waited here long if he was. That Russian we heard on the radio? Five dollars says he’s raiding the Barilla home right now.”
The Baron nodded. He stubbed his cigar against the brick facade of the shoe factory and offered the nub to the Zombie.
His friend sniffed the end, then popped it in his mouth and started chewing the dried leaf with a sticky sound.
Phyllis balked, but the Baron smiled and said, “He does that all the time.”
“That was in your mouth,” she complained.
“He can eat anything. Has for that matter. It doesn’t make a difference.”
“I know, it’s just the thought of it.”
“It’s tasty,” the Zombie said, still smacking loudly on the shredded tobacco leaves.
“Where is Marco now?” the Baron asked. “At a friend’s home?”
“No, he stays out late on Saturdays and sleeps in. There’s a parlor and hall in Crown Heights. He’s usually on one of the couches there until two or three in the afternoon.”
“Can you take us there?”
“Yes, but we’ll have to take a cab. I used to ride with Martin and Barilla, but we can’t really involve Martin in this.”
“Is he going to keep quiet?” the Zombie asked with a full mouth.
“Martin?” Phyllis asked. She was distracted by something, pulling down on the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger, but she answered his question before bringing up what was on her mind. “The man is good at following orders. So are the boys for that matter, but Baron? Why is the Cat o’ Nine Lives in New York? Better yet, how is it that I’m just now hearing about it? If anyone knew then—what’s the saying?”
“Even the—“ the Baron began.
“Apostate would know,” Phyllis interrupted, finishing the line for him. “Thats the one.”
“Elizabeth,” the Baron corrected, “but yeah, that’s what they say.”
The Apostate was widely considered the most remote and “lost” figure in occult lore, cut off from the world while hiding under a secret secular identity. Saying she heard occult news was hyperbole of the strongest kind, at least here in North America. The phrase wasn’t nearly as popular on the other side of the Atlantic, where the Apostate was often “sighted” with about the same frequency and validity as the Yeti or the Loch Ness Monster.
Phyllis was surprised. “You call her by her first name?”
“I do,” the Baron affirmed.
“Have you met her?”
The Baron chuckled. “Have you?”
“Of course not.”
“I just don’t like the title,” the Baron said. “Nothing strange about that.”
“It’s a little strange,” Phyllis said.
“It is,” the Zombie agreed. He swallowed his chunks of cigar.
The Baron waved aside the problem. “Fine, I won’t argue. Should I call a cab?”
“I’ll do it,” Phyllis said, heading for the front door but pausing briefly. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.”
After she went inside, the Zombie grinned at the Baron. “Just between you and me, I’d wager a clean hundred that we haven’t even put a dent in CPUSA.”
The Baron had already assumed that the enemy’s full resources were much deeper than the single platoon sent to the shoe factory, but the Zombie’s attitude was still surprising. “Why are you so certain?” he asked softly.
The Zombie shrugged in his tattered jacket. “Size of the city. We’ve got 12 million in the metro, and CPUSA had their headquarters here, right?”
The Baron had followed the politics of New England since immigrating to America. Still, it took him a moment to recall any details. “Uh, Mr. Ruthenberg moved it here in the 20s, yes.”
“Right, so let’s say one-hundredth of one percent of folks were trained for WWII and were members of the older Worker’s Party. That’s at least a thousand men. If a tenth of those had served in combat roles and had families, there’d be at least a hundred soldiers. At least that many. Plus, this is America. Give ‘em cash—most of it for their family, a little for equipment. They can buy their own guns, rent their own cars. The Soviets stay clean.”
“A real fifth column, above and beyond their spies.” The Baron blew out a breath. “You should’ve squeezed a bet out of me before the explanation.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re almost certainly right. I’m convinced.”
The Zombie was smug. “Being right is its own reward.”
Phyllis returned through the front door. “Oh good.” She seemed relieved.
“Everything okay?” the Baron asked.
“I was worried you might run the second you were unsupervised.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” The Baron smiled. “You’re part of this now, young lady.”
Phyllis guffawed. By mortal standards, she was decidedly middle-aged. “Is that a joke or flattery?”
“I’m centuries old,” the Baron said. “It’s both.”
“Honestly, it’s hard to imagine. You don’t look old, you don’t act old, but I read about you in a book written a hundred years ago.” She hesitated, eyes turned up, searching for something in memory. “Baron, Zombie—you’re like figures out of a Bible story.”
“Ah, I don’t know about acting young. We’re jaded enough,” the Baron said.
“I’m not jaded,” the Zombie added cheerfully.
Phyllis shrugged. “You still have that energy, I can tell. You yearn to do things.”
“Thank you.” The Baron felt that regardless of intent, it was always best to turn flattering ideas into a compliment. The Zombie picked up a brass casing off the pavement and started gnawing idly. “I try to keep interesting company,” the Baron added.
Phyllis must’ve meant it in a positive light. “You’re welcome.”
“Did you find a cab?” the Zombie asked between bites.
“It’s on the way, five minutes tops. The garage isn’t far from here.” She cracked her knuckles, a nervous tic. “Before we head out, I have a question. Why are people of your… significance here in New York? Why are you looking for the Cat, instead of—I don’t know—an army?”
The Baron appraised her closely. They were already at her mercy in some sense. It would be best to provide her with most of the information she asked for, if only to show that they trusted her. He honestly hated that he even had to think this through. In better times, there wouldn’t have been any hesitation. “I’m sure you’ve heard, but the Zombie and I are mercenaries. We specialize in occult investigations, and we’ve been hired by the Orthodox branch of the Soviet cult to find and recover their lost artifacts. The man you heard on the radio is the local leadership for the Bolshevik branch. If that man, Malik, recovers the Cat o’ Nine Lives, the Soviet cult will be destabilized. We’re interested in preventing that.”
“You’re helping the Russians?” Phyllis was clearly unhappy with the idea.
“That’s the wrong way to think of it. We’re hindering Stalin’s half of the Soviet cult. I’ll hash out the details later, but for now, trust me, there’s really no other solution.” The Baron cleared his throat. “Also, I’d like to mention that we don’t ask people to work for free. I’d like to offer you a flat fee for your guidance and assistance with Marco.”
Concern crossed her face. “How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars,” the Baron said.
Phyllis blinked with confusion. “Excuse me? Can you repeat that?”
“Ten thousand.”
She closed her eyes, frowning. “How much again?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Are you kidding? That’s a staggering amount of money.”
The Baron nodded once. “Money only means something if there’s somewhere left to spend it.”
Phyllis’s jaw dropped, then clicked shut. A second later, her voice emerged, tight and careful. “You mean, Stalin’s group would what—take command of the Soviet Cult?”
“Yes,” the Baron said.
“And then what… occult war?” she asked, putting the obvious and ominous pieces together on her own. “Langley would fight them, I assume.”
“Occult war is the start of that sentence,” the Zombie said. “Nuclear war is the period.”
“That’d be the worst case scenario,” the Baron added, “but it’s what we’re trying to avoid.”
Phyllis waved the Baron off. “I’m taking your payment, but if it’s ten thousand dollars of importance, I want to help.” She cracked her knuckles again. “We’ll need to cut the Cat out of Marco fast anyways. Mr. Barilla had a lot of friends who knew everything about his family. This man Malik will eventually pick up the trail.”
The Baron was glad to have her on board. “Last note. You’ll be a valuable target until this is over, so I’d like you to either stick with us or head to a temple after we’re done picking up Marco. Nothing else is safe.”
“I’m not safe either,” the Zombie said sweetly.
The Baron chuckled, glanced towards his friend. “Alone, sure, you’re a disaster. But together, we’re safe. And don’t tell me that’s false. You let a man go today.”
The Zombie grimaced. “Please. I have a reputation to uphold.”
The Baron smiled at Phyllis. “He looks like a disaster, doesn’t he?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you always insult each other?”
The Baron smiled wider. “Insult? Zombie, are you offended?”
“Are you ugly?” the Zombie asked.
“Apparently he’s not offended and I’m handsome. Does that answer your question?”
“You’re both apes,” Phyllis concluded, taking her own shot.
The Baron looked pensive. “Better than dogs, I suppose.” His expression flipped to satisfaction as Phyllis laughed softly.
No one said anything else as they waited for the cab. The growing quiet of Red Hook’s abandoned industries helped bleed off the adrenaline of the last half hour. Shattered windows and fallen bricks settled into the same peace that enveloped the rest of the docks. Snatches of conversation drifted through the hole in the building’s front wall. Someone was planning a story for an insurance company. A runaway panel truck hit the shoe factory. The Baron listened until the speakers departed for the interior of the building, and then his ears enjoyed the cries of gulls and the whispers of cool breeze, mercifully free of gunshots.
After the cab arrived, the Baron and the Zombie took the back bench, while Phyllis rode up front. With a cabbie in their midst, there was little they could discuss during the ride except their destination. Phyllis chatted with the driver about the state of affairs in Crown Heights.
When they were children, it’d been a bedroom community for old Manhattan money and upper-class Jewish families, yet WWII had changed the place. Economic stress had driven people out, prices had dropped in response, but low rent hadn’t called the original population home again. Instead the empty apartments and row houses were filled with young immigrants from Jamaica, the rest of the Caribbean, and much of the old American South.
Aspiring Italian families still bought apartments outright, treating the neighborhood as a token of wealth, but the economic segregation that’d formed its reputation was finally breaking down. Most of those families would be disappointed to learn that they’d bought into a future middle-class neighborhood. At least that was Phyllis’s best guess.
The Baron had his own ideas. Any changing place could become the heart of a thriving integrated community, but extant racial prejudices could breed resentment. The attitudes of the new locals would be key; their cultural enlightenment would determine their prosperity. Integration would grow the local economy. Segregation would break it. He’d seen it happen both ways back in Boston, back in Paris, going back to his original life as a German noble.
He didn’t interrupt Phyllis. She already held a sophisticated view of the neighborhood. Complicating it with cynicism wouldn’t help things. He just hoped her optimism was right.
The cabbie dropped them off outside a station along the west end of Crown Heights. From there, it was only a short walk to the Imperial Apartments on Bedford Avenue, about two blocks away from Prospect Park and deep into the richest slice of the old neighborhood. Heavy foliage sprouted from planters on the sidewalks here, as if the well-kept park were overflowing into the surrounding urban landscape. The leaves on the elm trees were waxy and dark, the luster of the living jungle transplanted from a rainy Central America to a relatively dry sidewalk in New York.
“They drown these trees in water,” Phyllis said, when she noticed the Baron’s stare.
“Fertilizer too, I bet. Everything here looks painfully expensive.” The Baron looked at the concrete walk underfoot. “Do they sweep the side of the road?”
“They wash the walks down with hoses.”
“Post-War waste,” the Zombie said. He ripped down a small elm branch and started snacking on the green wood and crunchy, feather-shaped leaves. The crisp sound reminded the Baron of celery, but amplified tenfold. Wood was reduced to pulp.
“Do you have to do that in plain sight?” the Baron asked.
The Zombie defended himself with a full mouth. “It’s a plant. People can reason it away.”
“It’s wood.”
“I thought you’d be happy if I ate regular things for a change.”
“It’s wood,” the Baron repeated. “Nevermind, you’re finishing that off pretty fast. Just chew with your mouth closed. We’re escorting a lady.”
The Zombie swallowed his pulp and crammed the last handful of leaves and twigs into his mouth. “She looks impressed,” he muttered around the arboreal mash.
“She looks mortified.”
“I don’t know what to make of it,” Phyllis said, still gawking at the Zombie.
“It’s pica,” the Baron said, “it’s not really voluntary. If he doesn’t eat heavy things, he’ll become irritable and upset after a while.”
The Zombie finished his branch. “I’m not hungry, but I need to feel like I’m eating sometimes. There are so many flavors…” He stopped and frowned briefly. “If I could truly taste them, I’d tell you what it was like. I don’t know what anything is like though, do I?” He looked at a ripped sleeve, tore off a bit of frayed cloth and started nibbling.
“We’ll need to change your shirt when we get a chance,” Phyllis said.
“Maybe I’ll steal a shirt,” the Zombie said. “Is this the place?”
“This has to be the place,” the Baron said.
The Imperial Apartments were an architect’s fuzzy memory of a brownstone castle. Each corner was a fat turret peaked with a dark apex, forming the borders of an elaborate facade like the rolled ends of a scroll. Each face was patterned with multistory arches framing several layers of smaller, heavily-decorated windows.
Anachronistic air conditioner units were mounted in many of these window frames, and their compressors chugged like the prop engines of distant airplanes. They’d been introduced on the market only a few months ago; to see this many in one location spoke volumes about the obscene wealth and almost hedonistic comfort of the inhabitants.
The Baron looked up and down the street from the corner. There were no cars with pale green windows, nor any with missing plates. He could only hope that CPUSA was drawing a number of their vehicles from the same carpool, or at least modifying them all similarly. It’d be nice to have some easy warning signs, though he doubted they’d make such simple mistakes.
Phyllis dug through her pockets until she pulled out a keyring, jangling with bundles of scratched brass keys. “This is it. Marco will be on the top floor, passed out. I have a key.” Phyllis led them to the front door. There was an old doorman standing just inside the entrance, in the shadow of the recessed entrance above the stoop. She waved to him as she unlocked the front door. “Picking up Barilla’s son,” she explained. “With some friends.”
“On Sunday?” he asked, doffing his hat to them, “Yes ma’am.” He stopped the Zombie briefly with a hand. “Wait, this Asian gentleman is with you, Miss Miller?”
“Yes. It’s a long story,” she replied. “We’re just glad he wasn’t injured.”
“There was an accident?” the doorman asked skeptically.
The Zombie cast him a broad smile. “My sleeve was caught in a car.”
“We’ll be heading up,” Phyllis said, “if you don’t mind?”
“Of course, of course.” The doorman unlocked the secondary door for them and walked them to the elevator. “I saw Marco asleep on the couch in the hall.” He opened the elevator cage and pressed the button for the fourth floor. “Sorry to hear about your accident.”
The Zombie let his fingers bounce along the cage bars. “It was fun.”
The old doorman looked terribly confused before the door shut. The old elevator booted into life, and they could hear the creak of ancient pulleys turning slowly. A small engine did a lot of work at a leisurely pace.
Phyllis folded her hands at her waist, waiting for the lift to do its job. “I’m not looking forward to explaining all this to Marco.”
“Does he know much about the system of prestige?” the Baron asked.
“Less than his father.”
“We’ll educate him. If he doesn’t listen, we’ll force him to cooperate.” The Baron looked at Phyllis. She was girding herself for something unpleasant. “Why does Marco bother you so much? Martin said something about talking to women?”
“He’s a little pig. Federico wanted to teach Marco courage, so he took him to a bar and made him flirt with the girls. He thought Marco would learn to talk smooth. Instead, he pinches me and whispers cuss words, things not even his father would say.”
“You?” the Zombie asked. “No offense, but you aren’t a young boy’s fantasy.”
“A little tact, please,” the Baron said tersely.
“No, it’s fine. The Zombie is right. I think he does it to make me upset.”
“What does he say?”
Phyllis looked grossed out. “He calls me a word.”
“Is it too harsh to say?”
“You’ll know when you hear it.”
That was ominous.
The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, and the Baron opened the cage into a wide hall stretching from one end of the building to the other, with an oddly slanted ceiling overhead and thin carpeting underfoot. At either end, a bank of tiny windows cast diffuse light over a pair of couches. It was public seating, probably for parties. It was likely some of the rooms up here were public spaces instead of private homes.
Passed out on one couch at the west end of the hall was a well-built teenager, not fully grown but obviously athletic and well into puberty. He had his limbs cast awkwardly over the armrests and off the edge of the cushions like they were loose and numb. His mouth was hanging open, and his tongue would be dry. His dark face had the ugly mud smear of an underdeveloped mustache. Obviously, he hadn’t bothered to shave it in days.
“That’s him,” Phyllis said.
“Come here.” The Baron huddled with her for a brief rundown on the kid. He needed to get inside Marco’s head a little bit. Grief tended to paralyze, freezing action and depressing judgement. The Baron needed a way to motivate, to take advantage of the teenager’s psychology. “How old is he again?”
“Seventeen,” Phyllis said, “but he’s truant and spends his days drinking with mafioso.”
“So he thinks he’s old. Was his relationship with his father good?”
“Honestly, no, he’s here for a reason. Barilla drove his mother out and blamed Marco for it. The kid’s a mess. He loved his dad, but he’s got no friends, no girlfriend, no education.”
“His dad was going to make him the dock boss?”
“I don’t know. I’m basically the dock boss for now, even if he inherits the property.”
The Zombie grunted. “How’s that work?”
Phyllis frowned. “Seen it before. If I do well, the family will offer me a loan and push him to sell it to me. Really, they just want someone loyal at the waterfront.”
“That only matters if he survives today,” the Baron noted.
Phyllis sighed. “True enough.”
“Listen, I’ll speak to him first. If either of you see a good angle, feel free to interrupt. We need Marco on his feet and in our camp. Are you ready?”
Two nods answered his question.
The Baron walked out ahead of them, Phyllis behind, the Zombie in tow. She seemed more than willing to let him take the lead. It was clear she didn’t want to hear what Marco had to say, and d’Holbach honestly didn’t want to hear it either. It was for the best that the Baron delivered the news and collected the pieces of the boy after he broke.
They stopped in front of the couch. Marco was breathing through his mouth, but he seemed otherwise insensate, utterly unaware of the new arrivals.
The Baron said quite loudly, “Marco Barilla!”
The teenager jerked a little, and his limbs began to organize themselves in a reasonable fashion. Still, he seemed to want to sleep, and he began to roll over quietly onto his side, folding up into the fetal position without ever really becoming aware of what was happening.
“Get up, or I’ll pull you up,” the Baron commanded.
Marco stopped moving. He was waking up now, anyone could see, but he was pretending to be asleep. He was obstinate, and they couldn’t afford to coddle him.
The Baron kneeled down by the couch. “Boy, we don’t have time for this.”
Marco scowled and his eyes opened up. He glared at the Baron, the Zombie, and then his eye caught Phyllis. “Hey, what’s with the goon squad?” he called to her.
“Talk to me, not to her,” the Baron said, physically inserting himself into Marco’s view.
Marco groaned and pushed himself up onto one shoulder. “What did you say?”
“Listen to the man,” Phyllis said sternly.
Marco sneered. “How about you tell your dog to back off and answer me first, cunt—”
The Baron slapped the sneer off his face, and Marco squealed and jerked back, twisting up and away. The Zombie wolf-whistled, appreciating the discipline.
“You say another word like that and I’ll play your ribs like a drum,” the Baron said. “You will never speak to a lady like that, ever—do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Marco said, clearly terrified out of his wits but holding his voice as steady as steel. He was preparing himself mentally for the next blow.
The Baron would work around that reaction. “Let’s make something clear. I don’t strike men without a reason, Marco. Be on your best behavior, and I’ll never touch you again.”
“Yes, sir,” Marco said again, calmer but surlier than before.
The Baron stood. “Here’s the facts. Your father died in a shootout less than half an hour ago, and the men who murdered him will be looking for you.”
“Murdered?” Marco asked sharply, then winced at the sound of his own voice.
The Baron pressed onward, making his case. “By now, they’re in the process of ripping your home to shreds. Once they don’t find what they’re looking for, they’re going to come for you. We’re going to ask some questions, and then we’re leaving.”
“My father is dead?” Marco said aloud, as if trying the statement in order to hear the truth in his own words. It was clearly something he’d imagined before; he had a well-practiced squint, refined in grim fantasies over months or years. He rubbed the scraps of his mustache and took a deep breath. “Did one of the scabs get him?”
“This wasn’t about the docks,” Phyllis said.
“Who then?” Marco unfolded on the couch and started rubbing the corners of his eyes with his thumbs, picking at the crusts left behind by the sandman. “Fuck. My head hurts.”
“I wish your hangover was cleared,” the Baron said. He felt a chunk of his prestige drain away, and the wish came true.
Marco rocked back in his seat, shutting his eyes tight. Sudden relief could be as shocking as sudden injury, and the boy wasn’t ready to be fully awake or aware. He’d been wearing his hangover as a shield; now the world was directly in front of him.
The Baron snapped his fingers to capture the boy’s attention. Marco cracked one eye open, and the Baron answered his question. “The Soviets killed him over the Cat o’ Nine Lives. That’s how serious this is. It’s international in scale. Global.”
“Jesus,” Marco said, and it was difficult to tell if he was remarking on his sudden sobriety or the insane suggestion that Communists had targeted a small-time criminal boss.
“Have you ever seen a wish come true?” the Baron asked.
“Not like that. How’d you do that?” Marco put a hand on his stomach. His nausea would be clearing up. He straightened his back. “I feel… shit, I feel all right, all things considered.”
“I wished for it, and my wish was granted. Ever heard of prestige?”
“Pop told me about it, I think. He said there were people out there that could ask God for miracles. They worked, earned, uh, that prestige, and spent it—on miracles. He said God was nice. He even showed me a miracle once.”
“That’s close, Marco. Most people believe it’s many gods, not just one, and they’re not nice or nasty. They’re barely visible at all. Just generous. There’s no ironic consequences—no monkey’s paw or twisted intentions.” The Baron was trying to give him the crash course in the system of prestige. If Marco understood what was happening, he’d be more likely to help. “You’ve got the basics down. People complete tasks, earn prestige, and spend it on whatever they want—within the bounds of reason. But there’s rules, and the biggest one is that no wish may impede or alter a man’s free will. You can’t harm someone directly. You can’t change their minds.”
“You can heal them though?” Marco asked.
“That’s right. I just healed you.”
An emotion set across the boy’s face, bringing him up to full awareness. It was hope, vague but desperate. “Could we help my father?”
“No. It’s not a matter of cost either. One of the other major rules is no resurrections. Death is forever, which brings me to the stone that your father fed to you.”
Marco was clearly disappointed, but he hadn’t hoped for much either. Dead was dead, even in a world of miracles. He touched a spot on his belly. “You know about the stone?”
“We do. As do the Soviets.”
“It’s weird, you know? I feel it all the time. It’s hard. Heavy.”
“What did your father say about it?”
“He said I wouldn’t choke, so just swallow it, and I’d be tougher. Stronger.”
“He was wrong. It’s an artifact, a product of a very old, very expensive wish to change the properties of an object, and it has a very specific purpose. There’ll never be another one like it.” The Baron paused. Explaining everything—including the Fall of Curses—would take a while, and they were vulnerable if they spent too long at one location. “For now, you’re going to have to trust me. The stone you swallowed—it was carved in the shape of a cat?”
Marco nodded slowly, still reeling from the sudden changes to his personal universe. “All curled up. Like a little kitten.”
“That’s the Cat o’ Nine lives. It’s one of the most valuable objects on the planet.”
“The planet? What?” For a moment, confusion was the primary emotion on Marco’s face. Then belief slowly dawned on him, frightening in its scale. The truth was beginning to penetrate through the unreality of magic, prestige, and parental death. This wouldn’t have been possible if Marco hadn’t already spent years believing in miracles, but that hook—that initial gullibility—was helping him to accept the rest of the occult. “What is this thing? What’s in me?”
Phyllis spoke up. “It’s acquired immortality. If you’ve swallowed the Cat and you receive a fatal wound, you won’t die.”
“If a man shoots your head, you’ll live,” the Zombie said softly. “Even with the bullet buried in your brain and a hole in your face, you will live.”
“You’re granted nine more lives,” the Baron added. “The Cat will save you from nine fatal injuries, barring its early removal.”
“There are limits,” the Zombie noted with a grin.
“Yes…” The Baron sighed at the added complication. “There are limits.”
The Zombie grinned wider, admiring his own grotesque thoughts. “Imagine someone shoving a grenade in your mouth, or crushing you under a wall, or pulling out your intestines with a hook.”
“Yes, uh, certain kinds of trauma will count as multiple injuries,” the Baron explained. “If the damage is egregious enough, it can qualify as more than nine at once and kill you outright. It’s not perfect invulnerability.” The Baron could practically feel the Zombie’s expression of triumph, glowing like a heat lamp at his back. “Regardless, Marco, it’s an incredible artifact. Nothing else defies death in the same way. If you die, you survive.”
“If I die,” Marco echoed.
“You survive,” Phyllis finished. “That’s the rub. That’s power.”
Marco blinked wearily. “Jesus Christ.”
“They’ve killed almost everyone who’s touched it,” the Baron concluded. “Your father is just the latest victim, and if you don’t come with us, you’ll be the next in a long line of dead men, leading from here to the end of the world.”
Understanding settled like dread upon the young man’s slumping shoulders. “Okay, man, I’ll come with you.” He planted his face in his hands and mumbled, “I don’t want to die.”
“With my help,” the Baron said, “you won’t.”
Author’s Note:
We’ve found our innocent man. Now, we must find a way to save him.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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