As if reading my mind, Faust glances up at me. “At least I get to do what I love: save lives. Never thought I’d be signing up for an eternal contract when I became a firefighter . . .”
Called it! I think. A century of watching people has paid off once again.
“. . . but I can’t think of a better reason to exist.”
Frosty slows, puts an arm around Faust’s shoulders, and gives him a sideways hug. “One of New York’s finest,” she says, and astounds me once again by giving him a peck on the cheek. He gives her a sad smile and then abruptly looks up, listening.
“Tirado’s got something over on Bushwick and Devoe. Three of our evil twins . . . on their way to stir up trouble, no doubt.”
“At this time in the morning?” I ask, as the three of us jog in the direction he had pointed.
“New York: the city that never sleeps,” quotes Faust.
Frosty fills me in as she runs. “We wondered if news of your battle in Paris had reached our city’s numa, and if so, if they would react. If it would make any difference to them. Their activity’s been growing steadily over the last decade, but recently something . . . different . . . seems to have been brewing,” she says, confirming what Faust said.
She throws a glance at me, a flicker of worry flashing across her blank-screen face, and says cryptically, “The dark prophecy that gave you your Champion doesn’t only refer to France. It’s the Third Age here too, you know.”
THREE
WE ARRIVE AT A FOUR-STORY BOX-SHAPED BUILDING that looks like it’s been sided with roof tiles. Green. Ugly. I shouldn’t care, but used to the beauty of Paris, I can’t help but cringe. It looks like an architect threw up on a blueprint and decided it looked good that way.
I’m back, Frenchie. Miss me? Ryan says in my head. I see Faust and Frosty talking to the air and know the volant spirits have congregated. “What do you see?” I ask him.
Top-floor apartment, he responds. Three numa versus four trust-fund-looking twentysomethings. His voice disappears for a moment, and then he’s back. The kids are selling drugs for the zombies and didn’t turn over all the money. Typical TV-cop-series scenario. Could have written a better script myself. Oh great . . . here come the numa volants.
Frosty talks to her spirit for another moment and then announces, “Okay, we’re on our own. The numa brought a volant each, and they’re blocking ours. I’ve sent Oreo back to the Warehouse for reinforcements. Ryan and Tirado, do what you can to stay with us.”
She turns from where she’s staring into space and focuses on Faust and me. “What’d you get from your volants?”
“Three numa, four twentysomething kids shifting drugs for them, deal gone bad,” Faust summarizes, fingering his weapons and looking up at the building.
“Same for me,” I say, “and Ryan specified top floor.”
“Oreo got more,” she says. “A numa forced one of the kids to overdose. Got the opioid injection?” she asks Faust. He nods. “We have two entries: one through the front door and the other at the back through a fire escape. Faust, go up that way and block the exit.” Faust takes off around the side of the building. “Wait for my signal, and then enter if you can without breaking the window,” Frosty calls after him. He waves to show he heard her.
She marches up the front steps, her long quilted coat flying open on either side as she unbuttons it, fishes around in the pockets, and pulls out a large set of keys. Leaning over to inspect the lock on the front door, she murmurs, “Schlage single cylinder,” and rifles through the key collection. Sticking one in the lock, she turns it and opens the door. I follow her into a small front-hall area with another locked door in front of us. Boxes and letters are stacked haphazardly on a side table.
Without hesitating, Frosty picks up a large Amazon box, inspects it, rings a doorbell labeled APT 1, and when a voice asks, “Yes?” she says, “FedEx.” The door buzzes open, she heaves the box toward a door marked 1, and we’re off, running noiselessly up the stairs.
From behind us I hear a door open, the shuffle of someone dragging the box into their apartment, and then the door closing. Good trick, I think with awe, understanding now why New York bardia insist on training out-of-towners in their ways before letting them loose. The simple technique of getting into a locked building without drawing unwanted attention would never have occurred to me. I can get into any building in Paris but would be totally lost here.
We get to the top floor, and Frosty pauses by the door, pressing her ear carefully to it, before slowly turning the door handle, testing. It’s unlocked.
I follow her lead as she draws only her gun, leaving her sword hidden beneath her coat. The Glock feels bulky in my hand, its screwed-on silencer weighing down the already heavy weapon. I haven’t held one of these since Ambrose, Vincent, and I posed as undercover security forces for a Paris embassy during the Gulf War.
“Take whoever’s near the door,” she whispers to me, and then, putting her fingers between her lips, lets out an ear-piercing whistle and shoves the door open, landing a forceful blow to whoever was behind it.
We’re in a short hallway. The open door blocks the access to the rear of the apartment, leaving whoever’s behind it for Faust to handle. We turn left and find ourselves in a chaotic living room, broken furniture tossed around, and drawn curtains blocking the morning light. Two young men and a woman huddle, crying, on a couch while two imposing numa, outlined in bloodred auras, loom over them, one pointing a gun at their captives. Another man is slumped over on the floor at their feet, eyes open, but obviously unconscious . . . if not already dead.
I take all this in at a glance, while from behind the door I hear the thick thud of a silenced gunshot, and Faust calls, “One down.”
Before his words are out, Frosty has put a bullet in the numa holding the gun, and he collapses. Rushing past her, I press my gun to the remaining numa’s temple as he reaches for his weapon. He drops his pistol and holds his hands up.
“Quickly,” Frosty says to the kids on the couch. “Take cover in the bathroom, and lock the door behind you.”
She doesn’t need to say it twice. In a second, they’re up and scrambling for a door across the room. They disappear behind it, I hear a lock turn from the inside, and then dead silence.
“What are you doing here?” Frosty steps over the numa she downed and strolls over to us.
Called it! I think. A century of watching people has paid off once again.
“. . . but I can’t think of a better reason to exist.”
Frosty slows, puts an arm around Faust’s shoulders, and gives him a sideways hug. “One of New York’s finest,” she says, and astounds me once again by giving him a peck on the cheek. He gives her a sad smile and then abruptly looks up, listening.
“Tirado’s got something over on Bushwick and Devoe. Three of our evil twins . . . on their way to stir up trouble, no doubt.”
“At this time in the morning?” I ask, as the three of us jog in the direction he had pointed.
“New York: the city that never sleeps,” quotes Faust.
Frosty fills me in as she runs. “We wondered if news of your battle in Paris had reached our city’s numa, and if so, if they would react. If it would make any difference to them. Their activity’s been growing steadily over the last decade, but recently something . . . different . . . seems to have been brewing,” she says, confirming what Faust said.
She throws a glance at me, a flicker of worry flashing across her blank-screen face, and says cryptically, “The dark prophecy that gave you your Champion doesn’t only refer to France. It’s the Third Age here too, you know.”
THREE
WE ARRIVE AT A FOUR-STORY BOX-SHAPED BUILDING that looks like it’s been sided with roof tiles. Green. Ugly. I shouldn’t care, but used to the beauty of Paris, I can’t help but cringe. It looks like an architect threw up on a blueprint and decided it looked good that way.
I’m back, Frenchie. Miss me? Ryan says in my head. I see Faust and Frosty talking to the air and know the volant spirits have congregated. “What do you see?” I ask him.
Top-floor apartment, he responds. Three numa versus four trust-fund-looking twentysomethings. His voice disappears for a moment, and then he’s back. The kids are selling drugs for the zombies and didn’t turn over all the money. Typical TV-cop-series scenario. Could have written a better script myself. Oh great . . . here come the numa volants.
Frosty talks to her spirit for another moment and then announces, “Okay, we’re on our own. The numa brought a volant each, and they’re blocking ours. I’ve sent Oreo back to the Warehouse for reinforcements. Ryan and Tirado, do what you can to stay with us.”
She turns from where she’s staring into space and focuses on Faust and me. “What’d you get from your volants?”
“Three numa, four twentysomething kids shifting drugs for them, deal gone bad,” Faust summarizes, fingering his weapons and looking up at the building.
“Same for me,” I say, “and Ryan specified top floor.”
“Oreo got more,” she says. “A numa forced one of the kids to overdose. Got the opioid injection?” she asks Faust. He nods. “We have two entries: one through the front door and the other at the back through a fire escape. Faust, go up that way and block the exit.” Faust takes off around the side of the building. “Wait for my signal, and then enter if you can without breaking the window,” Frosty calls after him. He waves to show he heard her.
She marches up the front steps, her long quilted coat flying open on either side as she unbuttons it, fishes around in the pockets, and pulls out a large set of keys. Leaning over to inspect the lock on the front door, she murmurs, “Schlage single cylinder,” and rifles through the key collection. Sticking one in the lock, she turns it and opens the door. I follow her into a small front-hall area with another locked door in front of us. Boxes and letters are stacked haphazardly on a side table.
Without hesitating, Frosty picks up a large Amazon box, inspects it, rings a doorbell labeled APT 1, and when a voice asks, “Yes?” she says, “FedEx.” The door buzzes open, she heaves the box toward a door marked 1, and we’re off, running noiselessly up the stairs.
From behind us I hear a door open, the shuffle of someone dragging the box into their apartment, and then the door closing. Good trick, I think with awe, understanding now why New York bardia insist on training out-of-towners in their ways before letting them loose. The simple technique of getting into a locked building without drawing unwanted attention would never have occurred to me. I can get into any building in Paris but would be totally lost here.
We get to the top floor, and Frosty pauses by the door, pressing her ear carefully to it, before slowly turning the door handle, testing. It’s unlocked.
I follow her lead as she draws only her gun, leaving her sword hidden beneath her coat. The Glock feels bulky in my hand, its screwed-on silencer weighing down the already heavy weapon. I haven’t held one of these since Ambrose, Vincent, and I posed as undercover security forces for a Paris embassy during the Gulf War.
“Take whoever’s near the door,” she whispers to me, and then, putting her fingers between her lips, lets out an ear-piercing whistle and shoves the door open, landing a forceful blow to whoever was behind it.
We’re in a short hallway. The open door blocks the access to the rear of the apartment, leaving whoever’s behind it for Faust to handle. We turn left and find ourselves in a chaotic living room, broken furniture tossed around, and drawn curtains blocking the morning light. Two young men and a woman huddle, crying, on a couch while two imposing numa, outlined in bloodred auras, loom over them, one pointing a gun at their captives. Another man is slumped over on the floor at their feet, eyes open, but obviously unconscious . . . if not already dead.
I take all this in at a glance, while from behind the door I hear the thick thud of a silenced gunshot, and Faust calls, “One down.”
Before his words are out, Frosty has put a bullet in the numa holding the gun, and he collapses. Rushing past her, I press my gun to the remaining numa’s temple as he reaches for his weapon. He drops his pistol and holds his hands up.
“Quickly,” Frosty says to the kids on the couch. “Take cover in the bathroom, and lock the door behind you.”
She doesn’t need to say it twice. In a second, they’re up and scrambling for a door across the room. They disappear behind it, I hear a lock turn from the inside, and then dead silence.
“What are you doing here?” Frosty steps over the numa she downed and strolls over to us.
