The Baron breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Pushing someone to believe in wild myths was often the hardest part of convincing a secular or near-secular person to cooperate, at least without asking the Zombie to perform a magic trick. Now it was time to motivate Marco, to offer a portion of hope to assuage any grief or dread. “You won’t die,” the Baron said. “We’ll make sure that you walk out of this situation alive, and I promise you, there will be justice for your father.”
“Yeah?” Marco dropped his hands to his lap. “Who killed him?”
“Just some Communist goon,” Phyllis said.
Marco scoffed. “God damnit it woman—”
The Baron twitched, and Marco shut up before he earned himself a second slap.
“If you have a question, ask it,” the Baron ordered.
Marco rubbed the red of his right cheek with a thumb. “Who ordered the goon?”
“Why do you care?” the Baron asked.
“Someone has to pay. Pop always said, ‘It’s an eye for an eye or you’ll go blind,’ yeah?”
The Baron opened his mouth, then closed it.
Phyllis stage-whispered, “That’s really how he said it.”
“Was he joking?” The Baron glanced at Phyllis.
She shook her head.
The Baron returned his attention to Marco. “Revenge isn’t an option. If you get anywhere near the Soviets, they’ll kill you, see that you have the Cat, and then kill you again and again until you run out of lives.”
“Answer my question, man. Who killed my pop?”
“You can’t kill him,” the Baron insisted.
“Why not?”
“Because the man is a Soviet diplomat. If he dies, you’ll start an international incident, and he’ll just be replaced by another man who’ll have twice as many reasons to gut you and sift through your entrails. Taking revenge on him won’t help, and it’ll certainly make things worse.”
“You’re telling me I can’t avenge my pop because of somebody else’s problem?”
“It’s not somebody else’s problem. It’s everyone’s problem.”
Marco was clearly upset. “What, the end of the world or whatever?”
“Yes, the end of the world. The Soviets have a cult with a lot of power and prestige, and the only reason they aren’t fighting with magic is because they’re a divided house. The Bolsheviks—the faction that murdered your father—are stymied by the Orthodox, the original owners of the Cat o’ Nine Lives. If anything happens to the Cat except for its safe return to the Orthodox leadership, the Bolsheviks will win control of the Soviet cult, and the ball will start rolling on an occult war between the CIA and the KGB—one that the Soviets will almost certainly win if they aren’t threatened with a nuclear strike.”
Marco blinked, suddenly imagining what every sane person saw after hearing the word nuclear—visions of annihilation. When he opened his mouth, his question came out like a prayer for hope: “Are you saying people won’t fight ‘cause of the nukes?”
“No, Marco, it’s the opposite. The Bolsheviks aren’t afraid of the bomb; nor are Langley for that matter. As far as they’re all concerned, committing to nuclear war isn’t a question of if but when. Taking your revenge wouldn’t just end your life. It might end the world.”
Marco shook his head. “I’m sorry, I hear you, but I… Jesus, man, I don’t care.” He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. “My pop is dead, and he’d tell me to kill for him.” He sniffed, flinching at some inner emotion, overwhelming his machismo and resolve. “It’s what a man would do.”
The Zombie grinned. “Kid, doing what we want is your revenge. What do you think happens when you fail the Kremlin? When you fail Stalin?”
Marco’s chest convulsed, but he took a deep breath to smother the sob. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “You get fired?”
The Zombie laughed. “If you own up to your mistakes, you die in a Gulag camp, cold and starving, and that’s a mercy. If you run, the KGB kills you in some remote corner of the world. They rip off your fingernails and cut out your tongue and make you suffer for failing them. They take pictures, record your screams—they make an example out of you.”
Marco swallowed and sniffed, but he couldn’t muster a reply, not even with seconds to reflect on the Zombie’s words.
The Zombie continued, “The diplomat’s name is Andrey Malik. The Kremlin is watching him, I guarantee it, and if he doesn’t find you and take the Cat, they’ll call him home for Stalin’s judgement. They’ll punish him for all that pointless murder, and all the risks he took.”
“They’ll kill him because he killed my pop?” Marco asked.
“For that and more, he’ll die slower than you could imagine, ashamed and broken.” The Zombie grinned even broader. “Help us win, and Malik will suffer. Do you want that?”
“I do,” Marco said bleakly. “I do. He has to hurt before he dies.”
“We’ll make sure he knows,” the Zombie said. “I promise.”
“You’re a frightening man,” Phyllis said to the Zombie.
He cackled. “I’ve lived a long time and seen tyrants in every age. They’re all the same, paranoid, afraid of the world they’ve conquered. After a while, even failure and rebellion look the same. They’re both obstacles. They stand in the way of perfect safety.”
“I’m not letting you off the hook,” she said softly. “That’s just as creepy.”
“Who are you?” Marco asked the Zombie.
“That’s right. We haven’t introduced ourselves,” said the Baron.
Phyllis raised a hand for them to pause. “Allow me.”
The Baron looked to the Zombie, who nodded his assent.
Phyllis crossed her hands at her waist. “Marco, these are very old men. When I was a little girl, I read a book that changed my life, and some of my favorite stories were about them. The European gentleman is Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach. He was born more than two hundred years ago in Germany. His Asian friend in the ruined shirt is the Zombie. In the book, he was called the Golem, and he’s the oldest man alive. Nobody knows when he was born.”
“I have some theories,” the Baron said.
“I have stories,” the Zombie added.
“He has fiction,” the Baron corrected, “but it doesn’t matter. I won’t age, fall sick, or waste away from an injury, but I’m vulnerable. That’s why this man protects me. He’s absolutely invincible, and he swore an oath that if I died, he’d destroy everyone responsible. Marco, this includes you. I’m not threatening you. I don’t expect you to attack me. I just want you to know what’s at stake.”
“Okay.” Marco was already overwhelmed. The Baron could tell that he was ready to shut down, but they couldn’t afford the delay any longer.
“Marco, before we go, I need you to show me a phone.”
The boy stood up. He was a full head shorter than Phyllis and two heads shorter than the Baron. Compared to the Zombie, he was a squirt. “You need to make a call?” he asked.
“We need to reach our Orthodox contact. I don’t have the prestige to heal a stomach injury, and there are only two ways to remove the Cat. You either die for the last time and your corpse coughs up the stone, or someone cuts you open and rips it out. Since I’d rather you survived, we’re going to need a surgeon and a lot of prestige. Nobody has ever survived its removal without a wish.”
“You want to do surgery on me?” Marco asked bleakly.
“I don’t want to, but we have to. It’ll keep you alive. Phone?”
Marco pointed down the hall. “There’s a phone in the parlor. Private.”
“Show us the way,” the Baron said.
Marco led them down the hall to an excessively thick oak door with rubber weather stripping around the edges. It cracked open with a shuffle of cold air, and the smell of stale cigarettes smacked them in the face. One of the window units was chugging along, bringing the room temperature down to nearly fifty degrees. Phyllis laughed to herself.
The curtains were drawn and the lights were down. The Zombie held the door open while Marco led the Baron to a rotary telephone at the end of a bar. “Thanks,” the Baron said.
“Who are you calling?” the Zombie asked.
“Operator.” He rolled out the zero and waited.
“You don’t have a number for your contact?” Phyllis asked.
“We weren’t supposed to call him. We were supposed to walk into the Soviet mission in lower Manhattan and put the Cat in his hands.”
“We could take Marco to the mission,” she said. “Think about this. You’re calling the Soviets. The lines will be wiretapped for sure, and who knows who’ll be listening—Langley, New York? The CPUSA guys under Malik will probably get the message too.”
The Baron shook his head. The operator came on the line and asked how she could direct his call. He told her, “I’d like to contact the Soviet mission. The name is Baron d’Holbach. I just need the external number, front desk. Public contact. Yes, thank you.”
“This is a mistake,” Phyllis grumbled.
The Baron covered the receiver with his palm. “There’s no other option. Malik already knows plenty, and there’s definitely been a shift in power since yesterday. Denisov might be under some form of house arrest. Contacting him will teach us a lot about the situation. Worst case, Malik learns that we found the Cat, and I’m sure he already expects that.”
“We might fail to contact him,” the Zombie suggested.
“One second,” the Baron said.
A woman with a clear Russian accent came on the line. “How may I direct your call?”
“Viktor Denisov. This is the Baron d’Holbach. He’ll be expecting me.”
“One moment please.” The secretary’s receiver went dead, but he was still on the line. After a few seconds, she returned. “Denisov is out of the office. Can I take a message?”
“It’s an important call. Did Denisov leave a forwarding number?”
Phyllis mouthed the words: Hang up.
The Baron shook his head. “Ma’am?” he asked.
The secretary seemed reluctant to answer. “He did.” She didn’t offer to help him. It wasn’t surprising. They’d probably switched someone else into the circuit, someone far too important to allow a mere secretary to make judgement calls in their presence.
The Baron decided on a gamble. “We have a message to give him about the Cat o’ Nine Lives. Tell the person listening over your shoulder that he’ll want to hear what we have to say, but we won’t say another word until Denisov is on the line.”
“Interesting,” the Zombie said.
“What’re you doing?” Marco asked.
The Baron shushed them both. Phyllis grimaced but stayed silent.
There was a long hesitation. “Yes sir,” the secretary finally said. “Switching you over now.” Another few seconds passed, a couple of clicks on the line, and then they were ringing in to another number. The phone rang ten times before anyone picked up.
“Denisov,” came the thick accent.
“I have a Baron d’Holbach on the line,” said the operator.
“Thank you,” Denisov said. “Go ahead, Baron.”
“Denisov,” greeted the Baron. “Where are you?”
“I’m at my office in the United Nations.”
So he had been moved from his office at the mission, even though he’d specifically instructed the Baron to return there with the Cat. “Has it been a busy weekend?”
Denisov chuckled. “The last time I saw the sun, I had coffee down in the village.”
So Denisov was under virtual arrest and had to stay on UN grounds. The Baron could work with that. “Do you have a lot of people helping you out?”
“I’m surrounded by many very helpful people. I’m glad you’re asking after my health, but you shouldn’t worry about coming to visit me. I’ll be fine on my own.”
The Baron felt Denisov was laying the double speak on a little thick, but image was everything. Denisov wanted to be able to deny his assistance with the Baron, even if everyone clearly knew what they were really talking about.
“Well, you’re in good hands,” the Baron said, carefully laying the groundwork for his next question. “Do they keep a good surgeon on site?”
“Of course. We have our own medical staff.”
“And anything they can’t handle, you can heal with prestige, right?”
“As you said, I’m in good hands, Baron. I’m ready for anything.”
“That’s good to know. About the Cat, Denisov, we haven’t found it yet.”
“The Cat?” Denisov asked as if confused.
“I’ll keep you updated if I have anything to bring you.”
“Good to hear,” Denisov said. “Keep me posted.” He hung up the phone.
The Baron hung up his end. This was the best result he could hope for. They’d learned where Denisov was stationed and the resources he could muster, while Malik’s listeners learned almost nothing new. “Denisov is at the UN. He’ll be ready for us.”
“What the hell was that?” Phyllis asked. “Nobody will be fooled by what you just said. The lady doth protest too much—”
“I know Shakespeare,” the Baron said, “but you’re missing the point. Malik already knew we were close to the Cat. We gave up nearly nothing in order to speak with Denisov, and if we can get to him before he moves again, we win. Malik loses. It’s that simple.”
Phyllis frowned. “Fine, that’s fair, but I’m still not happy with this.”
“Trust us,” the Zombie said. “We’ll make the best of a bad situation.”
“If you follow our instructions, I think we’ll be able to keep Marco alive.”
“Thanks?” Marco asked, not quite mustering the energy for sarcasm. The teenager could tell something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, and the Baron wouldn’t volunteer the facts. The truth was, keeping Marco alive was a luxury, and the easiest way to save the Cat was to cut it out of him here and now. Fortunately for Marco, the Baron didn’t want to take the easy way out, not when it doomed an innocent life.
The phone rang on the bar. Everyone looked at it. It could only be a coincidence unless someone followed them here and looked up the number in the directory, and in a building this size, there would surely be dozens of numbers. Yet for all this reasonable thinking, the Baron felt in his gut that the call was for him. Why? Because it was the middle of a Sunday, and they were the last people to make a call from the parlor. “Is this the only set for this phone line?”
“Yeah,” Marcos said.
The phone kept ringing. “Do you know who’d be calling about now?”
“Nobody.”
The Baron pointed to the Zombie. “Watch the hall from the door. We may have been followed, though I don’t know how.”
“That’s not possible,” Phyllis said.
“Maybe they could record the rotary pulses off the phone? I don’t know enough about phone switches, but I don’t think you can just call someone back.”
The phone continued to ring. Eight. Nine. Ten rings.
The Baron picked it up. “Hello?”
“Baron, I was afraid you’d already left,” Malik said.
The Baron laughed. “That’s ridiculous. How did you find this number?”
“I didn’t,” Malik said.
“Wishes for knowledge are impossible. You can’t know where we are.”
“Baron, does a good magician reveal his secrets?” Malik asked.
There had to be a way. What parts of the system were manipulatable? How could you exploit the nature of phones to return a call? Wait, Malik didn’t have to know—he simply had to ask for the call itself, and the gods would make him pay extra for his ignorance. “You wished for the phone to call this me back,” he told Malik, “and it cost you a great deal.”
“Correct,” Malik said, “a brilliant—”
The Baron hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” Phyllis asked.
“It was Malik. He wished to have the phone system dial us back.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing yet, but I’m checking something. Give it a moment.” The Baron raised a hand. After a second, the phone began to ring, and he picked it up again. “You pulled the number off the callback somehow,” he concluded.
“I wrote down the number of pulses,” Malik said angrily, “so stop trying to waste my prestige and listen. Based on what I heard, I’m guessing you’ve found the person who swallowed the Cat, but you can’t cut it out safely without a doctor and years of prestige.”
The Baron refused to respond. He’d learned what he wanted from the second callback. Right now, one of Malik’s underlings would be connecting the parlor’s number to an address. Malik was more resourceful than the Baron had anticipated, and his ability to exploit the system of prestige and squeeze knowledge out of a standard wish was admirable. The Baron had been bested, and his supposedly safe behavior had exposed them. Soon, CPUSA would learn their location and their destination. The enemy would come soon. Still, he waited on the line, looking to squeeze a little more information from his enemy.
“You’re silent,” Malik said with great satisfaction. “You agree with me. I know it. You’re a moral man, Baron, the history books make it very clear. You care deeply.”
“Thank you,” the Baron said. “You’re a clever man.”
“No, thank you. You’ve done half the work for me. Because New York isn’t ripping the city down to the foundations, I’m confident that they don’t have the Cat. Since someone has already swallowed it, I’m guessing it’s in a neophyte. Someone this Barilla knew, eh? Family, friends—I’m sure he put it in an innocent person, yes?”
The Baron said nothing.
“What is he saying?” Phyllis asked.
The Baron shook his head. He mouthed: Wait.
“Of course he did,” Malik concluded. “A civilian sees an artifact and thinks only about power, not about consequences. He thinks it’ll save someone he loves.”
The Baron remained steadfast. Malik was blathering, and at this point, it was equally likely that he’d spill crucial information or hang up the phone.
“More silence! Baron, use your head. Talk to me! Give up! Where is the Cat, eh? I’ll send my doctors, my prestige. We’ll save your innocent man!”
That offer finally twinged the Baron’s frustrations, demanding a response. “I don’t trust you,” he replied. “I can’t. Not after you killed children to keep them quiet.”
“Ah, Baron—you poor man! I preferred when you were silent.” A cough, clearing his throat. “I don’t need to know the location of the Cat, but I can’t leave any survivors until I have it in my hands.” A long pause, waiting. When the Baron didn’t respond, he continued with more verve: “I don’t like killing, Baron—I don’t!—but I had to be sure that the mob, that New York, Langley, the Vatican—I had to be sure that everyone but you stays away!”
“Everyone but me?” the Baron prodded.
“Oh, yes! I can handle you, and you think you can handle me, but neither of us can win a war against the world, yes?” He giggled. He’d probably snorted a line of cocaine before making the call. “I could trail you, or I could wait for you to deliver the clues to me. You’ve lost, you see. I know where you are.”
“I know,” the Baron said. “You’ve worked back to this location.”
“Then we’re…” Malik laughed to himself. “What’s the saying? We’re on the same page of the book? You have an innocent, and he has the Cat. You won’t make it to Denisov with him alive, I promise you that much, and you can’t go to any other occult doctor without losing the Cat to a third party. There’s no solution to the dilemma, don’t you see?”
“Why are you telling me this?” the Baron asked.
“Because I’m a tidy man, Baron, and I don’t want to kill anyone else on American soil. My offer stands. If you bring me the innocent, I will cut the Cat out and heal him, and you will be paid twice Denisov’s fee. Nobody else will have to die, and the details of Soviet politics will be worked out on the far side of the Atlantic. We’ll leave you in peace.”
“I don’t betray my client for a higher fee. I’m a mercenary, not a traitor. If I want work, I have to stick to my principles.”
“Pfah!” Malik made a long snort. It might’ve been another line of cocaine off the table in front of him. He coughed and sneezed, then said into the receiver, “Don’t refuse on a technicality. You were hired by the Soviet cult, and I am their ranking officer in America. If you give me the Cat, that’s it! Contract done. But if you refuse?” A snicker, another cough. “You’re making a choice to kill an innocent man, Baron. You can’t use your principles to weasel your way out of this decision.”
The Baron scowled. “My principles are mine. Do you know the saying, ‘History is written by the winners?’”
“Of course. Orwell. Englishman.”
“If the Cat ends up in your hands, you’ll treat Denisov as a traitor, and the Orthodox faction—who hired me—will be destroyed. That will be my fault. I will be a traitor. If it ends up in Denisov’s hands, then I’ll have completed my work, and the decision to send Nagy to New York will be undone. It’ll be as if the Cat was never here.”
“Hm. So you’re suggesting that only the Orthodox hired you?”
“That’s what I heard in Denisov’s office.”
“And you think the Orthodox faction will last long enough to pay you?”
“Yes! They have the Apples of Perun. If there’s an occult war, they’ll slaughter you. In any case, this isn’t just a single day for me, Malik. My reputation will continue long after you’re dead. People will talk about what I did here a century from now. Two centuries from now. If I’m going to stay in this line of work, I can’t betray my clients. In view of those coming decades, an offer for a lesser evil isn’t even tempting.”
“You assume you’ll live for decades,” Malik said softly.
“The Zombie is right here,” the Baron replied, words like lead.
“Try to save this unknown innocent.” Malik was unhappy, but his rising high was interfering with his ability to maintain focus. “Just remember, when it seems as if he has no lives left, the offer stands. We will save him, whoever he is. Just give me a call.”
The phone clicked, and the tone buzzed in the Baron’s ear.
“What did he want?” Phyllis asked.
The Baron hesitated. If he told Marco about Malik’s offer, it might drive a wedge between them. It all depended on whether or not the teen’s desire for revenge overwhelmed his survival instincts. However, if he didn’t tell Marco, and Malik later referred to this conversation, Marco might realize the Baron had been holding important information back.
“He wanted you to do something,” Phyllis asked, “about Marco, I assume.”
She’d brought it up first, just by guesswork. Smart woman. That made the decision easy. “He was offering to cut the Cat out of Marco,” the Baron said. “I refused for now, though the choice is ultimately Marco’s. If you’d prefer to throw in the towel and give Malik what he wants, I won’t stand in your way, though I think there are better alternatives.”
“Like what?” Marco asked.
“We take you to Denisov, as planned, and you get your revenge on Malik. Right now, we still have the advantage. He doesn’t know who you are, and we’ll be moving you through public transportation. There’ll be too many witnesses for the enemy to make a move.”
“You mean New York cultists?” Phyllis asked.
“Langley too. They have at least one agent in the city. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were just waiting for the Soviets to trip over themselves before they made their own move.”
“Malik is using CPUSA members,” Phyllis noted.
“Just for plausible deniability. There’d be no doubt for a Langley cultist. Have you met one? Everything in their world is about the war on Communism. We’ve already had to face them down back at the Biltmore Hotel. Thankfully, they don’t know about the Cat.”
“Langley cult? What’s that?” Marco asked.
“Special Operations Group,” the Zombie called from the door. “Occult patriots.”
“Who?”
The Baron answered. “It’s the paramilitary branch of the Central Intelligence Agency. They’re mostly incompetents, but they contain a cult whose roots stretch back to the American Revolution. Those few are dangerous. Real dangerous.” Marco had a confused expression, so the Baron asked, “Do you know what a cult is?”
“Not really. Pop said New York has a cult.”
“It does. A cult is a group of people who share a single set of beliefs and rituals. All cults of prestige believe in roughly the same mythology and cosmology, but they have their own rules, loyalties, and philosophies that separate them from one another. The New York cult is deeply pagan and utilizes a lot of classical Roman ritual in their worship. They’re feudalistic. Your father was a member of a vassal cult recruited out of the Cosa Nostra, and he paid a yearly tithe of his prestige to the New York nobility in exchange for their protection.”
“They didn’t protect him,” Marco said.
“They’re a sleeping giant. Give them time, they’ll fight back. An influential man named Schuler fought CPUSA at the factory. New York will know what happened very soon, and they’ll be very angry. We just have to keep them from learning about the Cat.”
“Why? If they were supposed to protect my father, wouldn’t they protect me?”
“New York is the most powerful cult in the West, likely the most powerful on Earth. Their feudalism pays for an army of cultists almost ten times larger than what any other power can muster, a veritable battalion of well-armed civilians with prestige. Nobody will win in a fight with New York, and they won’t accept the Cat going back to the Soviets. If it’s in their territory, in the son of one of their members, they’ll take it for themselves.”
“That sounds fine,” Marco speculated.
“That’d be bad for the good half of the Soviet cult,” the Zombie said softly. “Then there’d be no revenge. No dead Malik. We shouldn’t let that happen. We should kill for your dad.”
Phyllis frowned at the Zombie’s brazen methods of persuasion.
“Is that so?” Marco asked the Baron.
The Baron nodded. “If we lose it to New York, then the man you want dead takes control of the unified Soviet cult. He starts using the occult to win the Cold War, or he tries. Langley fights back, and sooner or later, someone important dies. Then it becomes a secular war, and we already told you how that ends.” He didn’t have to say anything more. The gloom of nuclear armageddon passed over them like a shadow across a window, blotting out the open sky.
Marco shuddered. The fear of atomic fire haunted even the most indifferent men. “So you want me to go with you to meet with this man, Denisov?” he asked.
“Yes.” The Baron glanced at Phyllis.
Marco took the non-verbal suggestion and asked her, “What do you think, uh, ma’am?” Everyone could hear the force of will it took to respect Phyllis’s word, but at least he was asking. One slap and one glare had extracted at least fifteen minutes of respect out of the boy.
She pursed her lips. “It’s the right thing to do, Marco. It’ll save your life. For your momma.”
“Okay, okay.” Marco seemed to steady himself mentally. “I’m with you, Baron.”
d’Holbach grinned. They could get moving, and just in time. “Follow my instructions, and we’ll see you through this. Stay with us until the Cat is out of you, and I promise, you won’t die.”
Marco put a hand over his stomach. “Until it’s out.”
Author’s Note:
There is nobody on this Earth who has a better chance of pulling Marco through the fire than the ageless philosopher and his invincible man.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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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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