“You want me to help her,” Osman had said, and so much implication had followed from those words, so many hidden hopes and dreams of being important and noble, of helping those who were powerful underdogs. A foundational understanding of the world had shifted in the neophyte’s heart. Women were as weak as David in the face of the occult world’s Goliath, but they had the will of the former and the potential of the latter. It was an injustice, and as the heir to an occult kingdom, he could aid them with his authority.
The Baron rushed to reinforce this vision. It wasn’t manipulative; it was authentic. The very same feeling animated the Baron’s own heart when helping Artemisians. “That’s right. I’m trusting you because you’re a good person. Someday, you’ll be more powerful than you ever imagined, just because of who you are. What you do with that power will change lives.”
“Yes, Baron.” Osman smiled despite himself.
“Today, you can prove that you’re an ally to an Artemisian. You can become a real Hound, just like the heroes in Apostasy. You only have to do two things.”
“Yes.”
d’Holbach ticked off one finger. “Tell Maurice and your father that we were searching for the corpse of a Soviet cultist carrying dossiers on New York noblemen. Tell them I could only entrust this information to a member of the New York nobility, like you. In the end, we didn’t find the files or the corpse. Simple enough?”
“Yes, Baron. I can do that.”
“Keep the story simple. Give less details than even that explanation. If you forget part of it, that’s fine, even good. If someone presses for more, tell them you didn’t have a chance to ask me anything. I was very taciturn.”
Osman smiled. “Easily done, Baron.”
d’Holbach ticked off another finger. “Second, you need to help me find this woman and a young man with large scars on his back and head. For either of them, name me, then Federico Barilla, then Andrey Malik. Repeat those names.”
“You, the Baron, Federico Barilla, and Andrey Malik.”
“After they recognize you as my messenger, tell them to wait in place. Then signal me, and I’ll come to you. With both of us searching, this shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. Keep on the watch out for subtle signals like doors cracked open. These are smart people. They’ll be looking to attract my attention.”
“What’ll happen after you reach them?” Osman asked.
“I’ll decide when I get to that point. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Baron. And uh… thank you for trusting me. Few, uh, few people do.”
The Baron grinned and slapped Osman on the shoulder. “You’re a real Hound already. Someday soon, you’ll know how important this was. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Baron.” He started towards the front door, then hesitated. “If Maurice stops me, do I tell him the story immediately?”
“No, tell him you’re working for your father’s interests and can’t talk with him yet. You’ll debrief after you’re done.”
“I can do that.”
Osman opened the door first. He looked up and down the balconies visible at this height. Nothing obvious was in view. The Baron walked out past him and started running down the open-air stairwell. Osman followed close behind.
Once they reached the bottom floor, the Baron sent Osman along the near row, and the Baron ran across the great chamber to the far side and started climbing again.
Halfway up to the third story, he spotted a door opening about halfway down the row. A teenager in ruined clothes stepped out tentatively. He was rubbing his forehead and had the beginnings of a beard and a much thicker mustache, visible even at this distance. It was Marco, at least several weeks older.
The Baron wolf-whistled. Marco leaned out and waved to him. The Baron pointed back at the wall he was beside. Get inside, he mouthed. Marco nodded and went back into the apartment he’d stepped out of.
The Baron doubled back, hit the bottom floor and simply kept running. Some of the New Yorkers lazing about the chamber took notice, but he said, “Nobleman business,” as a preventative measure, and no one stopped him.
It’s not like he could leave the temple in bloody clothes.
The Baron spiraled up to the apartment where Marco waited. He plodded across the catwalk, opened the door, and stepped inside. The young man was lying on the hardwood floor, limbs splayed out, eyes bleary but open. His clothes were long-dried. Sheets of clotted blood were cracked and peeling off the old jacket like a thin layer of lakebed mud. There were little flakes all around him. On his forehead, there was a dimple of fibrous scar tissue, resting neatly on a fully restored skull. “I’m so tired,” he said. “I barely want to move.”
The Baron shut the door and knelt beside the young man. “Nobody could expect more of you. It takes a lot of willpower to use the Cat.”
Marco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The skin on my back feels like leather. None of it stretches right anymore.”
“A wish could cure you, I think.”
He touched his mustache and muttered into his fingers. “It really happened. I made a wish, and I could feel the time I owed them. They took it from me.”
“Did you hibernate? They normally don’t grant a wish until your debt is paid.”
He opened his eyes. “I wanted the pain of death to go away.” He pinched his own cheek, twisted the strands of his uneven beard between two fingers. “I can’t even remember what it felt like to die.”
“Is that what you wanted?” the Baron asked. “To forget?”
“It was.”
“The gods don’t cheat you. They wouldn’t have granted a useless wish.”
“I know. They’re real.” Marco pushed up into a sitting position, shedding another little snowstorm of dried blood. “I knew I was dead, and I knew I could move. It was magic. Real magic.” He focused on the Baron. “That’s when I knew I could make a wish.”
“You saved yourself. Congratulations are in order, once we’re out of here.” d’Holbach offered a hand. “For now, let’s get up. We need to find Phyllis and go.”
The young man took it. “Just this morning, I never would’ve imagined.”
The Baron helped him to his feet. “You had the Cat in you. You survived death. I can’t think of a faster way to learn the occult instinct down to your bones.” He took Marco’s shoulder and turned him around. “Let me see.” There were several gigantic holes in his shirt and the Baron’s jacket, each opened onto broad shining sheets of horrible scar tissue. He reminded the Baron of an old burn victim.
“How does it look?”
“Like a giant scar. Take off my jacket and tie it around your torso. We need to cover them before anyone guesses where you got them.”
Marco did as he was told, using the sleeves to tie it across his sternum. It wasn’t a stable arrangement, but they didn’t need much time. The Baron adjusted the hanging cloth until Marco’s scars were hidden, and then they left the apartment and went down the stairs. When they reached the bottom floor, the Baron spotted Osman waving from the foot of another stairwell a couple of buildings down the chamber.
The Baron told Marco: “Over there. That’s the son of a New York noble. His name is Osman. Treat him with respect. He’s risking his life, and we need him.”
“Yes, Baron,” Marco muttered.
They walked over quickly. Osman, growing impatient, came to meet them halfway. A few beatniks and day laborers watched them from afar, but nobody seemed willing to rush the son of a noble and question him out of turn.
Once they were close, Osman whispered, “I found your lady friend.”
“Good.” Baron gestured at Marco. “Osman, this is Marco. Marco, Osman.”
“Glad to meet you.” Osman shook Marco’s hand quickly. “We should hurry. The Oracle already stopped me once. I told him you were trying to leave. He’s gone downstairs to catch you at the door, and Porter is waiting there with a few others.”
“Very clever.” The Baron slapped Osman on the shoulder again. “Let’s go.”
Watchful eyes followed them as they rose up the far wall. Osman opened a middle-story door, leading them into another lightly cleaned, hardwood floor apartment. It was almost identical to the last two, but the lights were on.
Phyllis was standing inside at the kitchenette, dipping her hands in a sink full of water and unmaking her tattered beehive hairdo. Her fairly short, slightly graying locks fell about her head in wavy pleats. The wrinkles on her face were deeper and more frustrated than normal, but there was still the echo of the young, serious woman that she must’ve been a decade or two before. She’d probably worked in Barilla’s factory back when it was first founded, and she’d leveraged that into a career of crime and prestige. Today, that career was threatening to fall apart.
“Baron,” she said gruffly. “I nearly had a heart attack when Osman came in here.”
“I can imagine,” the Baron said.
Osman smiled with pride. “I convinced her. I’m here to help.”
She nodded to Osman, then focused her attention on the Baron. “I don’t think dodging was the right decision. That cost me at least twenty percent of my stock.”
“Apostasy says you shouldn’t dodge,” the Baron agreed.
“That’s right.” She finished smoothing down her hair. “I don’t know this place, but I can’t see a way out from the balcony. Are we trapped here?”
“There’s only one exit in the temple chamber. We can’t take it.”
She wiped her hands on her cornflower blue blouse. “I’ll die here once they find me.”
“I won’t allow that.”
She nodded at Marco. “Welcome to the system of prestige.”
The young man seemed unsure if she was serious. “Thank you?”
“I’m glad the Baron found you before New York did. You might make it out alive.”
“You won’t die here,” the Baron agreed.
“You’re new?” Osman asked Marco.
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” Marco replied. “I got shot. Repeatedly.”
“I know! Look at that blood.” The young men easily slipped into amicably chattering, finally in the presence of someone even close to their own age.
Phyllis and the Baron ignored them, stepping closer to converse. “What’s your plan then?” she asked him.
“First, let’s get this prestige back to you.” He held out his hand. After a moment, she took it, and he wished, “All my prestige is yours.”
A feeling of emptiness hollowed the Baron, but the sensation passed quickly. There was no punishment in the act, only proof that the prestige was transferred.
Phyllis grunted, ignoring any warm feelings. She released his hand. “Listen, I don’t blame you for what happened, but I’m cornered in this temple. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I know—”
“If I can’t leave, I’ll just wish for the afterlife, then let them shoot the old woman that comes out of the sanctuary.” She seemed angrier by the second. “Promise me that you get the Cat back to its rightful owner. If I’m going to die for the world, it damn well better be saved.”
The Baron held up a hand. “One second, please. I think there’s a way out.”
“What?”
“Look at the window behind you. There’s a fire escape.”
“In full view of the street?” She turned to look. “We’ll get a lot of attention going down the face of the building.”
“Less than in here,” the Baron said.
She shrugged. “Fine. Do you know where we are?”
“This is the 8th Street Temple. It’s Greenwich Village.”
“That’s not so bad. Okay, I can work with that. There’s a safehouse in the underground about ten blocks from here. It’s in an abandoned utility tunnel. Stolen power, stolen water, a pile of tins knee-high.” She stepped to the window, squinting into the afternoon light. “Me and a few of the other girls in town have been paying into it. We usually hide there after sniping a task in Manhattan. If nobody is using it, we can stay there tonight and make plans for the morning.”
The Baron leaned in close behind her. “Can we tell Osman where it is?”
“Not really,” Phyllis said. “I shouldn’t even show you two.”
“The Zombie will have to find us somehow. Osman could pass along the message, and he is eager to help. I think we can trust him.”
“Fine.” She turned away from the window. “Osman?”
Osman snapped to attention, wiping away any smile. “Yes, miss?”
Phyllis nodded curtly like a pleased commander. “If you see the Zombie, tell him to go to Canal Street. Canal and Broadway.”
“Will do, miss. I’ll stay here this evening, if it’ll help.”
“It will,” Phyllis agreed. “Thank you, Osman. The Baron was right. You’re a good man.”
Osman smiled, visibly proud of himself. “You’re welcome, miss.”
“One more contingency,” the Baron added. “Tell the Zombie that if I can’t pick him up at Canal and Broadway by midnight, then he should go to the Biltmore and get changed. I’ll pick him up in the Kissing Room tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Baron,” Osman said.
“You need to get out of here and talk with Maurice. Feed him the story. While you’re doing that, we’ll be escaping without your knowledge.” The Baron went to the window and played with the slide latch. It was half-stuck with paint, but it opened.
“Good luck, man,” Osman said to Marco, offering him a handshake.
Marco accepted it. “Luck to you too, man.”
“Thanks again, neophyte,” the Baron added from the window.
Osman went to leave but paused at the door. “You’re welcome, Baron.” Then he departed, shutting it quietly behind him.
“Is that really the son of General Osman?” Phyllis asked.
“Yes,” the Baron said, “Surprising, isn’t it?”
“Very. I’m surprised he doesn’t want you killed.”
“His apple rolled far from the tree.” The Baron pushed open the window. The afternoon breeze blew in, bringing the surprisingly fresh smells of auto exhaust and raw dust into the stale atmosphere of the apartment. It felt as if the natural world was intruding on an unnatural, even hallowed place. He’d close the window once they were out.
“Are you good to run, Marco?” The Baron didn’t even have to ask Phyllis.
“Yeah. I’m alive.”
Phyllis chuckled. “That’s not what he asked.”
“I can move. The scars are just a little thick.”
“Can you tell if you still have a kidney?”
“What’s that?”
Phyllis patted her side. “A kidney. The shell blasted it to pulp. Think the Cat grew it back?”
“I don’t know.”
The Baron knew a bit more about the Cat’s function from prior contact with Janos Nagy. “Stuff grows back. Like your brain, your spine, your skull. It’s often scarred, but never gone.” Then he turned and stuck his head out of the window. The street below was clear. The New York posse would be waiting for him in the bookstore, since it technically wasn’t temple territory on the first floor. He pulled back in and said, “We’re covered in dry blood and people will be looking for me. This means no cabs, no buses, and no trains until we’ve cleaned up. Any ideas?”
“Steal clothes?” Marco asked.
“That’s stupid,” Phyllis said. “Baron, do you have any loose twenties? I’m clean enough. I can bribe a cabbie to drop us off at Broadway and Canal Street.”
The Baron sorted through his wallet. He only had one twenty left, and it was his largest bill. He held it out between two fingers. “This will pay for a little silence?”
“I can chat up a cabbie. We’re in Lucchese territory, and I’ve done business in the Garment District. I’ll name drop the last boss. He’ll know he’s helping an Anastasia mafiosa.”
“The cabbie will know the boss’s name?” Marco asked.
Her eyebrows raised. “Lucchese is the king of Manhattan, Marco.”
In his heart, the Baron agreed. There wasn’t a unionized worker or trade organization that didn’t know their Cosa Nostra contacts by name. Ever since High Oracle Gagliano had stepped out of the limelight and made Lucchese the official head of the local family, they’d been turning the entire borough into a unified criminal enterprise.
“I don’t know this area.” Marco was trying to excuse himself, but it was clear that he was hopelessly out of touch with Cosa Nostra politics in New York. It was no wonder that Barilla had assigned the dock to Phyllis. His son’s ignorance would’ve been sniffed out as weakness.
“Everyone in a union knows who is who,” the Baron said. “I’m going first, then Phyllis. Marco, close the window behind you?”
“Yeah, Baron.”
d’Holbach grabbed the sill and vaulted through onto the black metal fire escape. It was narrow, cheap, and old. The entire thing rattled but held fast onto the brick facade. He started down the steep steps. Phyllis hopped out behind him. Marco climbed over the sill, then yanked the window shut by its trimming. They spiralled down rapidly, reaching the end of the escape in less than fifteen seconds. The Baron grabbed the release on the ladder, but he didn’t drop it immediately. Once Phyllis and Marco were bunched up behind him, he gave instructions.
“When you hit asphalt, run north. The station is just past the Y-junction where the street merges with Greenwich Avenue. It’ll be a cabbie ant farm at this hour.” He tapped the release. “Once this drops, someone will recognize what we’re doing. I guarantee it. Ready?”
Marco gave him a thumbs up. Phyllis nodded.
The Baron yanked, and the ladder slid down with a metal squeal and a heavy bang when its feet hit the sidewalk. He swung over the top and climbed down fast, skipping every other rung. Phyllis joined him, nearly on top of his hands, and Marco followed just after her.
A tall, thin man was shouting outside the 8th Street Bookstore, just a few buildings south of their position. He raised his arm and waved at the people indoors. Already scouted.
The Baron waited until Phyllis and Marco were down, then took off at a full run. It wasn’t a sprint, but they didn’t have the luxury of jogging. Phyllis had good form and kept up easily. The Baron glanced back once to see Marcos keeping pace but slapping his shoes on the sidewalk—bad form from an inexperienced runner. His shins would ache.
“Will they catch up?” Phyllis asked breathily.
“Not without a car,” the Baron said between controlled huffs.
Marco said nothing, but his struggle for air was clearly audible.
The Baron glanced back at him after a minute or so. Their destination was only half a mile away, but Marco would be wiped long before they reached it. The Baron had the advantage of everlasting youth and the training of decades of fitness. While he couldn’t run a marathon, he could easily run three or four miles. Phyllis seemed naturally fit and would probably make a half mile in three minutes. Contrasted with them, Marco was sweating profusely.
“Just two minutes, Marco,” the Baron urged.
Marco nodded and kept running, even as his ragged breath suggested pain, like a growing stitch in his side or weak feet. Maybe the place where he’d had a kidney burst was inflamed, even after a few weeks of healing and physical rest.
A black pre-war sedan with clear windows came roaring up the far lane, passing them on the other side of the road. Even with a muffler, its engine rumbled and roared like a lion.
“New York has a car!” Phyllis called out.
“I’m not blind!”
The Baron watched it pull ahead of them, then swing about in a U-turn. It stopped in the street ahead, and four New Yorkers spilled out—Greenwich Oracle Maurice, the tall Gatekeeper Porter, a beatnik, and a thick old man who looked like a retired club bouncer. The Baron slowed. Phyllis came up behind him. The bouncer had a Tommy in his hands, more WWII surplus stock.
Marco stumbled to a stop a few feet behind them. The Baron glanced back. The teen had his hands on his knees and was panting. “You alright?” the Baron asked.
“I’m gonna be sick.”
The Baron turned away. “Just let it out.”
Marco responded by vomiting onto the sidewalk, dry-heaving with loud hacking coughs between retches. He sniffled and said, “Oh Jesus,” then vomited again. Whatever else it did, the Cat probably left Marco in a state of extreme exhaustion, and he wasn’t taking to running well.
A newer post-war black sedan with green glass windows pulled up behind the New York vehicle. The approaching driver leaned into his horn. After a few seconds, the New York posse broke gaze with the Baron and turned around to see what the fuss was about.
The Baron had a suspicion that CPUSA had just arrived on the scene.
A green-glass window rolled down, and a man shoved a revolver out of the window, immediately firing it into the air. The three unarmed New Yorkers hit the deck.
The thick man tried to fire his Tommy, but nothing happened. Someone must’ve wished to break it, and he hadn’t brought the prestige to fix his weapon.
Time to make another decision. The Baron sighted an access alley between them and the vehicles, leading into a back alley where the dumpsters for the neighboring row would be kept. “Off the main streets,” he commanded, pointing to the destination. “There, go!” He took off running. Phyllis joined him, and gasping for air, Marco followed.
The sedan with the green glass peeled out, swerved around the New York vehicle and its cultists, and rushed up the lane, heading towards them. Fifty yards out.
The Baron sprinted, going up onto the balls of his feet, feeling that one moment of free energy that would come before sharp exhaustion. His limbs pumped beneath him. He reached the alley corner first, stopped with a bounce, and turned to check on Marco.
Phyllis was focused, head down towards her feet. She flew past the Baron into the alley.
Marco was struggling to keep up.
“Move!” the Baron roared at him.
The enemy vehicle was thirty yards out. There wasn’t enough time.
Marco knew it too. Life or death—he closed his eyes and sprinted like only a young man could. Beyond the end of any rope, he nearly fell forward into an explosive, desperate run.
CPUSA gunned their engine, accelerating. A man in a black suit leaned out the rear window and fired a wild shot at the Baron. A magnum, something big. It didn’t hit anywhere close, but d’Holbach ducked instinctively and ran into the alley.
Phyllis went down against the brick. He slammed into it beside her.
Marco was still running towards them, reaching the alley corner. The car and the teen were on an interception course, somewhere close to the corner of the building.
Out of view, they heard a crunch as the CPUSA car jumped the curb.
“Leap!” the Baron yelled, an intuition more than a reasoned reaction.
Marco blindly followed instructions. He leapt up and towards the Baron.
Later, d’Holbach would reconstruct what happened in a conversation with Phyllis, but the moment of calamity was experienced as a splash of shattered masonry and the literal crash of a car. It must’ve been a maneuver stolen out of films; maybe the CPUSA mercs had reinforced the vehicle with a wish but failed to consider their own safety.
The sedan swerved toward Marco and rammed into the corner of the brick building, wrapping a length of its collapsing hood around the masonry; that slice of folding metal then caught the leaping young man like a catapult’s scoop and launched him just ahead of a shockwave of safety glass and shattered stone.
Marco sailed five yards, flipping once—feet over head—before slapping flat into the alley pavement and rolling to a stop.
“Fuck!” Phyllis roared, diving to the boy’s aid.
The Baron jittered to his feet, glimpsed towards the crashed vehicle itself. Its engine was dead, the windshield destroyed. Most of the force of impact had gone into the bricks. The CPUSA driver was visible but disoriented, breathing slowly. He’d probably cracked a rib over the steering wheel. Nobody else in the vehicle seemed to move. Blacked out, but not likely forever.
They needed to assess Marco’s condition and decide on their next step.
“Why are they all fucking crazy?” Phyllis raged.
Colored safety glass crunched underneath the Baron’s shoes as he turned his attention to the young man. “Are you okay?”
Marco was unfolding slowly, turning over onto his back. He looked up at the Baron and Phyllis with a poorly focused glare. “Did I die? It feels like I died.”
The Baron frowned. “I don’t know. The building took most of the hit. You jumped the bumper, and the hood tossed you. Stuntmen do that. You might be okay.”
“He could be bleeding inside!” Phyllis yelled.
“The Cat can cover that. It’s powerful.” The Baron took a couple steps towards the corner again, skirting around the CPUSA vehicle to check on the New York cultists. They were currently standing around their own sedan, yelling at each other about something. If there was ever an opportunity to escape, it was now. “It’s time to go.”
“Can you stand?” Phyllis asked Marco.
The teen moved very slowly and pushed himself up onto his knees. “The Cat is cold.” He very gingerly touched the back of his neck. “I’m sore all over.”
The Baron jogged over to him. “I’m sure you are,” he said, offering a hand. “Tell me if anything gives you a sharp pain, or if the Cat starts burning again.”
Marco rose to his feet, shaking, then winced and fell forward. The Baron caught him with his left arm. Phyllis rushed forward to support his right. Between them, Marco heaved onto the asphalt again, and again, and a third time. When his stomach stopped seizing, he was out of breath. “Shit,” he cussed.
“You can’t run anymore,” the Baron judged.
“We’ll move him,” Phyllis declared.
“Will they follow?” Marco asked.
“Hard to say. Let’s hope the wreck distracts them.”
“Put your arm over my shoulders,” the Baron ordered.
Marco slung most of his weight onto the Baron. Phyllis supported him from the other side. “Thanks, ya’ll.”
“Good to go?” Phyllis asked him.
“Legs aren’t broken,” Marco muttered. “I don’t think?”
The Baron took one step, and Marco and Phyllis followed his lead. “Just keep moving for now. Once you’ve caught your breath, you’ll be good to walk.”
They hobbled through the side alley into the brick-paved back alley between the rows. It was lined with open dumpsters from one end of the block to the other. Tomorrow was trash pickup, and bags full of plastic refuse, flattened cardboard, and rotten food were piled high in the bins, nearly overflowing in some places. Just nearby, a bag had fallen onto the ground and burst, spilling out trimmed fat, half-melted in the sun and swarming with spring flies.
Marco groaned in audible discomfort.
“Try to keep it in,” the Baron said.
Marco swallowed noisily and coughed, but he didn’t vomit again.
Phyllis was glancing around, understandably alert. “They’re incredibly desperate now.”
“Who? CPUSA?” the Baron asked.
“Yeah. They’re starved dogs fighting over the scraps.”
“The Soviets are putting a lot of pressure on them,” the Baron.
“Enough to make a man risk a car crash to clip Marco?”
“Maybe they thought they’d be able to plow through the corner and survive. Like the movies.”
“It’s still a damn stupid risk to run the boy down.”
“I hate ‘em,” Marco muttered.
Phyllis gave the young man a quick, gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. We’ll be careful. Especially the Baron. He’ll be double careful, won’t you?”
“I’m always careful,” the Baron replied.
She chuckled. “Are you?”
“I sure am.”
“No, no, you aren’t. You’re too used to standing near the Zombie.” She reached past Marco and nudged the Baron’s ribs with a knuckle. “They’ve been that desperate all along, but now we don’t have the invincible man. They’ll put a few holes in you, even if it’s a bad idea.”
The Baron ignored the physical prodding. “That’s a fair warning,” he admitted, “but a lot of them ought to know the danger. The Zombie could do a lot of damage. He’s overthrown kingdoms before. He’d bring down all of civilization if it meant getting his revenge.”
“How do you know that?” Marco asked.
“Some old books,” the Baron replied.
“That one the woman wrote?”
“No. Foreign stuff. Different traditions. In a Chinese record, someone claimed the Zombie killed important members of the Xia Dynasty and led the razing of the city of Nanchao.”
“He killed a dynasty?”
“The remainder of a family, in retribution for the death of a man in the Battle of Mingtao. The rival Shang were already ascendant, but they solidified their power after that.”
Phyllis frowned. “This is why the Apostate is scared of the Zombie.”
“What do you mean?” the Baron asked.
“How could this end well? You’ll die someday, Baron. It’s just a matter of attrition.”
The Baron planned on living until everything changed, but arguing his weird eschatology wouldn’t put Phyllis at ease. It’d probably make her feel worse. “Maybe,” he said.
“If you’d never lived, the Zombie would’ve been a menace and a devil, but he wouldn’t have threatened countless lives with a Pact tied to your life.”
“Yeah.” The Baron licked his lips, wondering if this was a good idea to share, then deciding that Phyllis could be trusted. “Don’t repeat this, but sometimes, when we talk about this, the Zombie promises he’ll keep the body count low.”
“You’ve asked him?” Marco asked.
“I made him promise. Only the minimum to erase the memory of the criminal and no more. Still, I’d rather not test him. If I’m going to die, let it be an accident.”
“The Zombie should see it that way,” Phyllis muttered.
They walked for several more minutes, encouraging Marco to flex his legs and put weight over his joints. If he didn’t keep moving, he’d cramp up and inflammation would grip his tissues. Even with a dose of painkillers, he’d be stiff as a plank by morning. Whether or not he’d walk under his own power would depend on his condition this evening.
They hit the end of the row, came out another narrow gap, and stopped on the Y-junction connecting 8th and Greenwich Avenue. Phyllis scouted ahead a few steps, having far less blood on her clothes. The Baron stopped supporting Marco, testing if he could stand.
“No heat,” Phyllis declared as she looked back. “Let’s walk.”
And they did walk. The teen’s unsteady gait resembled a drunk man’s stagger, but it was fast enough to cover the last half mile in relative safety. The sun was low on the left, hanging just over the buildings. Shading their eyes, they wandered across the street and up the sidewalk.
A few onlookers saw them, stained in old blood and injured, but Phyllis walked ahead of them with purpose, looking grim, while the Baron smiled and seemed at ease. The physical fiction he told was clear and believable. They’d been hurt, but Phyllis was in charge of them, legally and otherwise. They were being taken with authority.
“Them boys alright?” asked a storekeeper seated out front of his shop.
“They’ll be fine,” Phyllis said tersely.
The Baron spread his palms to the man, an open gesture. “It looks a lot worse than it is, but we’re heading home to get cleaned up. Thank you for asking.”
“Nothing terrible happened?”
“We pulled a pie-eyed man out of his own disaster.”
“When was this?”
“About lunchtime,” the Baron said.
“We’re in a hurry,” Phyllis said tersely. “Keep up, boys!”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the storekeeper, “it’s just a rare sight.”
“We’re sorry to worry you,” the Baron added as they moved past their interlocutor. “We’re in a sad state, but it’s been a long day, and we haven’t had a chance to get right.”
“No worries,” said the man, “get yourselves home soon.”
“Of course, sir.”
They kept going up the block to the subway station at the next major intersection. The Baron suggested to Phyllis that they’d have to hurry. The next time a beat cop came around, the shopkeeper they’d seen would be relating the story and asking questions.
“I have the twenty,” Phyllis muttered. “We’ll be out of here in minutes.”
There was a Jamaican cabbie smoking the last stub of a cigar outside his cab at the corner of the block. Phyllis came up ahead of the Baron, but the cabbie seemed discouraged by the mere sight of them. He launched the cigar stub into a spiral of sparks and raised his chin, but before he could say anything, she called ahead, “Corallo will know you treated us well.”
“What are you dropping Corallo’s name for?” the cabbie asked.
“He was running trucks and cabs from here to the Garment District until last year. He said if I needed a ride after a bad job, pay well, tip better, and don’t ask for a long drive.” She pulled the folded twenty out of her pocket. “Now I know Corallo’s home number by heart. I could interrupt his Sunday dinner and have him call your boss’s boss, who’ll then call you, or you can make a clean twenty for taking us to Canal and Broadway.”
“That’s all?” he said. “Smells bad.”
“Yeah?” she asked.
“Yeah. You’re not asking much for a twenty.”
“We can’t be seen on the open street.”
He looked at the money warily. It was a tremendous amount of cash for an incredibly brief fare, but equal to his greed, the size of the bill also measured their desperation. A twenty said, this isn’t just a small time run. Something big and bad happened.
“Nobody will know to ask you,” the Baron said. “Are you on break?”
“I was,” the man said.
The Baron pulled out his cigar case. He’d like to keep the smoke for himself, but the gesture was more important than his nicotine addiction. “Would you like a double claro?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Can I have the case?”
The Baron flipped it open and smiled. “Hell no.”
The cabbie laughed. With the left hand he took the bill and with his right the cigar. “Canal and Broadway, on my break. I went there to pick someone up. They tipped me a full twenty.”
“That’s a good story about a lucky man,” Phyllis replied. “A reliable, discreet cabbie will drive a popular cab. Listen, I work Red Hook for Anastasia.” She looked at the cab number. “I’ll remember you.”
“I won’t remember you,” replied the cabbie, opening the driver’s door.
Phyllis smiled and gave him a wink. “Good attitude.” She opened a rear door, ushering Marco and the Baron into the back of the cab. Then she opened the front passenger door and slid into the seat across from the cabbie. She gave him the silent nod, and the cabbie started the car. Once they were underway, the Baron allowed his shoulders to relax, Phyllis slouched and closed her eyes, and Marco breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Upon arrival, new conditions would reveal themselves, and the Baron would certainly have to make new decisions, but for the duration of the ride, they were mercifully safe.
Author’s Note:
Osman’s heart grew three sizes that day. :3
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
