license, registration, and brains, ma’am.” I suppress the urge to stick my gun in her face—I really have to stop relying on the damn thing so much.
“I think she wants to talk to you,” Stoker says.
“So? What if I roll down the window and she tries to eat my head?”
“She’ll probably get food poisoning.”
The woman continues to study me in a vague sort of way. I have to admit, I’m not exactly getting a hostile or dangerous vibe from her—and if she really wanted to attack me I doubt she’d announce herself beforehand or let a thin layer of glass slow her down. I sigh and roll down the window. “Uh, hi.”
“Hi.” Her voice is as dull and flat as an old butter knife. She doesn’t offer anything further.
“Is there something you want?” I say. It seems as good a conversation gambit as any.
“No.” More silence.
I try a different approach. “Why are you here?”
“Because I’m dead.”
Progress, I guess—a whole three words. “How did you die?”
“I was old.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen.” But not to pires, which means she was either a thrope or a baseline human. “How long have you been dead?”
“Ever since I got here.”
“Were you a thrope?”
“Don’t know what that is.”
“Werewolf.”
“What wolf?”
“No, were wolf.”
“Oh.” She pauses and straightens up, looking around. Then she raises one arm slowly and points to the swirling mist behind the car. “ There wolf.”
Stoker and I both swivel around and look out the rear window.
There’s a figure back there, standing in the fog at the edge of visibility. Its silhouette is that of a thrope in half-were form, tall pointed ears jutting from a canine skull, but that shrinks down to a more human outline before my eyes. The figure takes a few steps forward, resolving into a redheaded man of indeterminate age. His features are narrow, with a slightly Asian cast to them, but nothing definite; he could pass for Hispanic or Caucasian or even Indian without much trouble. He’s dressed in a tan trench coat over a dark olive suit.
“Hello, love,” he says. His voice is self-assured, amused, and right off a London street.
I look at Stoker. “I think he’s talking to you.”
“Talking to both of you, actually.” The man’s red hair is darker than most, and slicked back with oil. “I mean, I hate to interrupt what seems a fascinating dialogue between you and Ms. Rest-In-Peace there, but when you’re done discussing the relative merits of open versus closed caskets, I wouldn’t mind a moment of your time.”
I look at Stoker. He shrugs. “I think we can work it into our busy schedule, don’t you?”
“Who are you?” I ask the stranger. “And what do you want?”
“You can call me Zevon, Agent Valchek. And as to what I want? Why, I want to provide you with a much-needed service.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Protection?”
He gives a throaty chuckle. “Not at all. Transportation—which is to say, a way out of this place. Interested?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A deal, of course. You provide something, I provide something in return.” He gives me a grin, which is a little too feral for my liking. “What else did you expect?”
I sigh. “Something a little less cliché? Come on, guy with a fondness for red shows up in the underworld and offers to make a deal? Why don’t you just pull out a contract and ask for a blood sample?”
Zevon looks slightly indignant. “Please. First of all, you have your cultural references all mixed up; this is Yomi, not Perdition. Second: I much prefer green to red, as you should be able to tell by what I’ve got on; and third, if you mean to suggest I’m after your soul, I should point out that you’re already here . Honestly, if that’s what I was after I’d just kill the both of you.”
“You could try,” I growl.
He shakes his head. “No, no, no. That’s not my intention at all. I’m not Lucifer or Satan or anyone like that; I’m
“I think she wants to talk to you,” Stoker says.
“So? What if I roll down the window and she tries to eat my head?”
“She’ll probably get food poisoning.”
The woman continues to study me in a vague sort of way. I have to admit, I’m not exactly getting a hostile or dangerous vibe from her—and if she really wanted to attack me I doubt she’d announce herself beforehand or let a thin layer of glass slow her down. I sigh and roll down the window. “Uh, hi.”
“Hi.” Her voice is as dull and flat as an old butter knife. She doesn’t offer anything further.
“Is there something you want?” I say. It seems as good a conversation gambit as any.
“No.” More silence.
I try a different approach. “Why are you here?”
“Because I’m dead.”
Progress, I guess—a whole three words. “How did you die?”
“I was old.”
“Yeah, that’ll happen.” But not to pires, which means she was either a thrope or a baseline human. “How long have you been dead?”
“Ever since I got here.”
“Were you a thrope?”
“Don’t know what that is.”
“Werewolf.”
“What wolf?”
“No, were wolf.”
“Oh.” She pauses and straightens up, looking around. Then she raises one arm slowly and points to the swirling mist behind the car. “ There wolf.”
Stoker and I both swivel around and look out the rear window.
There’s a figure back there, standing in the fog at the edge of visibility. Its silhouette is that of a thrope in half-were form, tall pointed ears jutting from a canine skull, but that shrinks down to a more human outline before my eyes. The figure takes a few steps forward, resolving into a redheaded man of indeterminate age. His features are narrow, with a slightly Asian cast to them, but nothing definite; he could pass for Hispanic or Caucasian or even Indian without much trouble. He’s dressed in a tan trench coat over a dark olive suit.
“Hello, love,” he says. His voice is self-assured, amused, and right off a London street.
I look at Stoker. “I think he’s talking to you.”
“Talking to both of you, actually.” The man’s red hair is darker than most, and slicked back with oil. “I mean, I hate to interrupt what seems a fascinating dialogue between you and Ms. Rest-In-Peace there, but when you’re done discussing the relative merits of open versus closed caskets, I wouldn’t mind a moment of your time.”
I look at Stoker. He shrugs. “I think we can work it into our busy schedule, don’t you?”
“Who are you?” I ask the stranger. “And what do you want?”
“You can call me Zevon, Agent Valchek. And as to what I want? Why, I want to provide you with a much-needed service.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Protection?”
He gives a throaty chuckle. “Not at all. Transportation—which is to say, a way out of this place. Interested?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A deal, of course. You provide something, I provide something in return.” He gives me a grin, which is a little too feral for my liking. “What else did you expect?”
I sigh. “Something a little less cliché? Come on, guy with a fondness for red shows up in the underworld and offers to make a deal? Why don’t you just pull out a contract and ask for a blood sample?”
Zevon looks slightly indignant. “Please. First of all, you have your cultural references all mixed up; this is Yomi, not Perdition. Second: I much prefer green to red, as you should be able to tell by what I’ve got on; and third, if you mean to suggest I’m after your soul, I should point out that you’re already here . Honestly, if that’s what I was after I’d just kill the both of you.”
“You could try,” I growl.
He shakes his head. “No, no, no. That’s not my intention at all. I’m not Lucifer or Satan or anyone like that; I’m
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