shat out of Cicisbeo, a little voice suggests that I’m simply rationalising the bond of the magical contract. It is a petulant, pointless voice, seeing as even if I listen to it I still can’t do anything about it, anyway.
It’s started raining again farther up. Not here, near the centre of the Eighth. The sky doesn’t exist here. The drains, busy spewing putrid water into the alleyways, report the weather. With time, the puddles will empty into the lower level. In certain parts of Nectropis, the rain takes two days to reach the ground.
Splashing. The hare’s splashing in a puddle, nearly twenty metres ahead of me.
“Stop, police!”
He doesn’t stop. I follow him. It hardly ever works, but on the rare occasions when they listen to me, they save me a lot of work. Pointy Ears slows down almost imperceptibly to look at me, then he dives into a run-down building.
I follow him, dodging the columns of water coming down from the gutters, my weapon aimed. I lean against the wall next to the door, but the gushing water from the drains covers any noise from inside. Gripping my gun with both hands, we look inside.
Nobody. The place looks like an abandoned storage area, there’s all kinds of junk piled here and there. A small bonfire burns in the middle of the room, it’s probably the camp of some lowlife who’s popped out to do a spot of shopping in the dumpsters.
The spluttering flames animate the shadows. I move forward slowly, My semi-automatic goes before me.
“Come on, Gilder, don’t make things worse. Aggression towards two agents is bad enough.”
A noise on my right. With a jerk-like movement, I clear the mound of decrepit junk, ready to fire.
The coarse cry of a gremlin with its arms in the air.
“Have you seen him? Where’s the elf?” I yell, holding my aim.
“No bam! Me good! Me good!”
“Where!?”
Ten to one he doesn’t understand me at all, but I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.
I turn and fire.
Just a fraction too late. The bullet gets lost in the echo of the explosion. I end up on the floor again, half of me is inside an old cupboard, the wood completely rotten.
Gilder’s on top of me, with my gun in his hand. The end of the road. Shit, I’m dead meat.
But he doesn’t shoot. He says something which I don’t quite catch in the middle of this swirling universe. He looks at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for an answer.
Maybe Cohl shouted in the alley. The cavalry is on its way, little cock-sucking rabbit. This is what I’d like to say but I can only taste the blood in my mouth. How much will it hurt after? Lots. Lots and lots. That’s if there is an ‘after’.
A metallic sound on the cement floor.
Gilder’s thrown the gun down, after shooting into the dancing shadows.
When Cohl appears before me, his moronic face all worried, I can finally pass out.
Thursday night (but it feels like Monday morning)
We get back to the club in under ten minutes. When I come to, Cohl bombards me with questions which I don’t even listen to. The pain in my back is still somewhat distant, but it gradually increases as the effect of the Onirò wears off, a sharp reminder that my stash is gone. I’ve got an hour, maybe two, before I feel the full effect of the beating I got from Gilder.
The host—a greasy fat-arse wearing an unspeakable checked shirt—is waiting at the back entrance, with his arms spread wide questioningly. I push him inside, ignoring his protests and quickly lock the door, leaving a bewildered Cohl in the alley with the jets of slimy of water spurting out of the drains.
The client has disappeared, while the stripper is dressed and worried at the other end of the corridor.
“Clear off,” I say. “Murder.” I only need to say it the once, and he melts away into the front part of Cicisbeo, where everything seems to be as normal.
Nohl’s fists make the door vibrate. “Arkham, let me in!”
“What the fuck’s going on?” demands
It’s started raining again farther up. Not here, near the centre of the Eighth. The sky doesn’t exist here. The drains, busy spewing putrid water into the alleyways, report the weather. With time, the puddles will empty into the lower level. In certain parts of Nectropis, the rain takes two days to reach the ground.
Splashing. The hare’s splashing in a puddle, nearly twenty metres ahead of me.
“Stop, police!”
He doesn’t stop. I follow him. It hardly ever works, but on the rare occasions when they listen to me, they save me a lot of work. Pointy Ears slows down almost imperceptibly to look at me, then he dives into a run-down building.
I follow him, dodging the columns of water coming down from the gutters, my weapon aimed. I lean against the wall next to the door, but the gushing water from the drains covers any noise from inside. Gripping my gun with both hands, we look inside.
Nobody. The place looks like an abandoned storage area, there’s all kinds of junk piled here and there. A small bonfire burns in the middle of the room, it’s probably the camp of some lowlife who’s popped out to do a spot of shopping in the dumpsters.
The spluttering flames animate the shadows. I move forward slowly, My semi-automatic goes before me.
“Come on, Gilder, don’t make things worse. Aggression towards two agents is bad enough.”
A noise on my right. With a jerk-like movement, I clear the mound of decrepit junk, ready to fire.
The coarse cry of a gremlin with its arms in the air.
“Have you seen him? Where’s the elf?” I yell, holding my aim.
“No bam! Me good! Me good!”
“Where!?”
Ten to one he doesn’t understand me at all, but I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.
I turn and fire.
Just a fraction too late. The bullet gets lost in the echo of the explosion. I end up on the floor again, half of me is inside an old cupboard, the wood completely rotten.
Gilder’s on top of me, with my gun in his hand. The end of the road. Shit, I’m dead meat.
But he doesn’t shoot. He says something which I don’t quite catch in the middle of this swirling universe. He looks at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for an answer.
Maybe Cohl shouted in the alley. The cavalry is on its way, little cock-sucking rabbit. This is what I’d like to say but I can only taste the blood in my mouth. How much will it hurt after? Lots. Lots and lots. That’s if there is an ‘after’.
A metallic sound on the cement floor.
Gilder’s thrown the gun down, after shooting into the dancing shadows.
When Cohl appears before me, his moronic face all worried, I can finally pass out.
Thursday night (but it feels like Monday morning)
We get back to the club in under ten minutes. When I come to, Cohl bombards me with questions which I don’t even listen to. The pain in my back is still somewhat distant, but it gradually increases as the effect of the Onirò wears off, a sharp reminder that my stash is gone. I’ve got an hour, maybe two, before I feel the full effect of the beating I got from Gilder.
The host—a greasy fat-arse wearing an unspeakable checked shirt—is waiting at the back entrance, with his arms spread wide questioningly. I push him inside, ignoring his protests and quickly lock the door, leaving a bewildered Cohl in the alley with the jets of slimy of water spurting out of the drains.
The client has disappeared, while the stripper is dressed and worried at the other end of the corridor.
“Clear off,” I say. “Murder.” I only need to say it the once, and he melts away into the front part of Cicisbeo, where everything seems to be as normal.
Nohl’s fists make the door vibrate. “Arkham, let me in!”
“What the fuck’s going on?” demands
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