I sketched the line upward, then folded the map at Stanhope Street to make sure I located the end point correctly. From there, I drew a diagonal line, branching off to the southeast, and folded the map at an angle to verify that it mirrored the bottom branch. A corner of Boston Common at Boylston Street. The eihwaz rune stood out on the map, connecting five separate sites.
“If they’re using this rune as a pattern, the next murder will happen here,” I said, pointing to the dot at the top of the map. It was on Back Street, a sort of alleyway between Beacon Street and Storrow Drive, near where the Back Bay becomes Beacon Hill.
Mab stood. Axel jumped up to assist her, but she was much steadier on her feet. “We must go there at once. It’s our best chance to ambush Myrddin.”
“And stop the Reaper,” I added.
Juliet grinned. “And kick the Old Ones’ bony asses straight to hell.”
23
JULIET SAID SHE NEEDED TO HUNT AND WOULD MEET US AT Back Street. I wasn’t sure joining us was such a great idea. Right now, she was the Amazing Perpetual Motion Vampire, but two hours ago, she’d been dying. The surge of vitality she’d gotten from the bloodstone wouldn’t last forever—Mab warned it would wear off. And who knew what the longerterm effects of the virus might be? Besides, Juliet was unarmed and I couldn’t spare any weapons.
Axel thunked two silver stakes with polished ebony handles onto the bar. “Crowd control,” he said. Juliet picked one up, hefted it, and made a lightning-fast downward strike, stopping just above the bar’s surface. She almost looked like she knew what she was doing. “Now I’m armed,” she said, “with silver. See you there.” She was gone before I could argue with her.
I didn’t even attempt to convince Mab to go home and rest. She seemed to be gradually recovering, and I knew she wouldn’t let me face Myrddin alone. Whatever was between my aunt and the demi-demon wizard, it was personal. She wanted her shot at him.
We checked our weapons. Ever since Myrddin’s little helpers had snatched me off the street, I’d carried a small arsenal for defending myself against demons, Old Ones, vampires, and whatever other nasties might come at me. I carried two guns: one loaded with bronze bullets, the other with silver. In addition, I had a bronze dagger and a second dagger with a silver-plated blade. Mab didn’t like pistols; she preferred old-fashioned weapons. She also carried two daggers: one for demons, one for vampires. We were as ready as we were going to be.
WE FILLED OUT A SMALL MOUNTAIN OF PAPERWORK AT THE checkpoint into Boston, but we made it through. Beyond the checkpoint, several taxis waited. I snagged the first one. Mab got in and sat with her head against the seat, eyes closed, while I gave the driver an address on Beacon Street, about half a block past the intersection with Berkeley. He nodded, pulled away from the curb, and turned up the radio.
Some talk-radio host was ranting about the Reaper. “Three murders in five days. Only a creature with no respect for life—for human life—could commit these horrible, disgusting, inhuman crimes.” His voice rose with outrage. “Only a monster could commit these murders. And every Bostonian knows where the monsters are: Deadtown. I say call in the military. We’ve got precision bombers. Burn the whole place down to the ground. Purge Boston through cleansing fire, and then start over. Let the filth of Deadtown perish, and let Boston, like a phoenix, rise from the ashes.”
I leaned forward. “Can you turn that down?”
The driver scowled into the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing under bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He reached forward and reduced the volume by maybe half a decibel. The talk-radio ranter speculated on how many megatons of explosives it would take to wipe out Boston’s zombie population.
“No, I meant turn it down. I really don’t want to listen to that nutjob right now.”
“Nutjob? What nutjob? The man has a point.” The volume stayed where it was.
I glanced at the cabbie’s license for the driver’s name: Ferris Mackey. “Listen, Ferris—”
“Mack. Everybody calls me Mack.”
Okay, fine. “Listen, Mack, I live in Deadtown. So I’m not all that thrilled to listen to some lunatic who wants to blow up my home and my friends, all right?”
Mack shrugged, but he switched off the radio. A couple of seconds later, his eyes returned to the rearview mirror. He studied me so intently he almost ran a red light.
“Watch the light!”
He slammed on the brakes, throwing Mab and me forward, the taxi’s nose a third of the way into the intersection. He turned around in his seat to gawk at us. This time, his scowl seemed puzzled.
“So what are you, a werewolf?”
“No.”
“You’re not vampires.”
“No, we’re not.”
The light changed, and the car lurched forward. “Vampires and werewolves, them I don’t mind. Good tippers, usually. So are the people who’ve been out to the bars—real people, I mean, you know, humans. Usually the humans are so relieved to get the hell out of there, they show their appreciation with cash, know what I mean? That’s why I wait for fares outside the checkpoint. But I won’t let a zombie in my cab. Those things . . . they’re unnatural.”
I didn’t want to listen to this crap for the couple of blocks we still had to go. “How about you turn your own volume down? You’re as bad as the nutjob.”
The salt-and-pepper eyebrows climbed his forehead. “There’s a serial killer running around Boston, and she calls me a nutjob. Nice. Hey, I’m just telling it like it is. This city has got its problems. Political corruption. Muggings. Gangs out in Roxbury and Dorchester. But we ain’t had a serial killer since, what, the sixties? Seventies?”
“The Boston Strangler was a human.”
“Yeah, and he was a good, old-fashioned crazy-type killer. Him I can understand. But now all these zombies appear, and next thing you know there’s this weird, ritualistic, carve-’emup killer on the loose. Everybody knows the zombies got bloodlust. That’s what happened. The bloodlust, it got to one of ’em. For humans to be safe, we gotta get rid of the zombies. Us or them.” He took another look at me in the rearview mirror. “I don’t believe you live in Deadtown. I saw you come out of that bar. You ladies are human, ain’t you? Out looking for a little paranormal excitement. Well, take my advice—stay out of the Zone. Unless you want to end up as monster chow.”
He pulled over to the curb and threw the cab into park, as if to underline his point. He stopped the meter and told me the fare. I got out and handed him exact change, down to the last quarter. He scowled as he counted the money, and I smiled sweetly. “Add shapeshifters to your list of lousy tippers.” I shoved the door shut.
He shouted something, but I didn’t hear him through the closed cab window. His gesture was clear enough, though. The cab peeled away from the curb, but slammed to a stop at the red light at Clarendon.
A nutjob and a lousy driver. I was glad to be out of his cab.
When I turned around, I didn’t see Mab. She wasn’t standing on the sidewalk where I expected her to be. My heart lurched. We were a block away from where the Reaper would strike, and I’d turned my back on my aunt.
“Here, child.”
I tracked the sound of her voice. There she was, sitting on the steps of an elegant, four-story brick town house. I went over and sat beside her. “I liked the way you handled that bigot,” she said. “Some people aren’t worth arguing with.”
There were a lot of those in Boston. Like Police Commissioner Hampson. You’d never convince a guy like Mack the taxi driver, because he was so totally in love with the sound of his own voice spouting off his opinions. Anything you tried to say presented a chance to spout off some more.
But I didn’t really care about norms and their opinions right now. I was worried about Mab. We hadn’t even made it to Back Street, and she was already sitting down to rest.
“Are you okay to go on? Be honest,” I added before she could reply. “I know using the bloodstone took a lot out of you. If you’re too drained, I can run and get that taxi before the light changes. He’ll take you back to Deadtown.”
Mab’s expression showed she had no intention of listening to any more of Mack’s monologue. Too late, anyway. Down the block, someone ran over from Clarendon Street, hailing the cab.
“I’m fine,” Mab insisted. “And I’m not letting you proceed without backup. Your roommate seems to have forgotten us.”
It was true. I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Juliet. I hoped she was okay. Most likely she was fine. She hadn’t fed properly in days, and I could see how hunting would distract her. Vampires weren’t what you’d call team players; they were survivors who put their own interests first. Juliet could easily get sidetracked and assume I’d handle my own problems. Like stopping the Reaper.
I stood, and so did Mab. She moved easily, but something haunted her eyes. How much pain was she hiding? If I asked her, she’d deny she hurt at all.
Side by side, we walked down Beacon Street to Clarendon, where we turned right, toward Storrow Drive and the river. The spot I’d marked on the map, the top point of the eihwaz rune, was a block east, just past Berkeley Street. We’d approach the site slowly, looking for places where Myrddin could be hiding, alert for any sign of the Reaper.
Back Street was deserted. To our left, past a narrow strip of grass and trees, cars zipped by on Storrow Drive, but traffic was light. To our right, Beacon Street town houses and apartment buildings showed us their backs. Grand and elegant in front, they were much plainer from this vantage point, crisscrossed with metal fire escapes. Parked cars lined the street and crowded into tight lots. We kept to the shadows, peering into the windows of garages and basements, looking for any sign that the Old Ones might be in residence. Slowly, we made our way east.
We were about to cross Berkeley Street when headlights shone down that road. Probably a car headed to the Storrow Drive on-ramps. I grabbed Mab’s arm, and we ducked into a small parking lot, getting between an SUV and a car. We crouched there, peering through the SUV’s windows, as the beams grew brighter. The car, a taxi, rolled slowly into view. It didn’t accelerate like it was going to get on Storrow Drive. As it crossed Back Street, it drifted to the right—past the on-ramps—and hit a signpost. The overhead STORROW DRIVE EAST sign shuddered. The car halted, kissing the post, its front bumper crumpled.
