That left one option: facing them. By the time I’d hit the shower, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and downed two mugs of black coffee, I felt almost ready to do just that.
I still had some time before I went to meet Daniel at the Tremont Street checkpoint, so I thought about which weapons to take on tonight’s expedition. I wasn’t going demon-hunting, so I didn’t need my usual assorting of daggers, a sword or two, and bullets, all in demon-busting bronze. Still, it would be dark soon, the time when demons are free to enter in the human plane, and you never know when one might materialize in your face, waving its claws and spewing its sulfur-and-brimstone halitosis. I’d bring along a bronze-bladed dagger or two, just in case. A pistol and a couple of magazines of bronze bullets couldn’t hurt either.
But one weapon was a must-have for tonight: Hellforged, an obsidian dagger that, true to its name, had been fashioned by demons in the depths of Hell. Centuries ago, the Cerddorion had stolen it from a Hellion, and it was the only tool we had to control the Morfran.
Hellforged rested in my hand, its polished black blade gleaming. The first time I ever touched this dagger, it leapt away from me like a skittish colt. Hellforged had a mind of its own, and my early attempts to use it were clumsy. But we’d learned how to work together. Now, a quiet vibration thrummed through the dagger as I held it, but it didn’t twitch or jump. I slid it into its ankle holster, hoping there would be no need to use it tonight.
Hellforged could call and hold the Morfran, but only slate could imprison the spirit. For that, I had a specially made slate plaque, commissioned by Mab from a local witch in Wales. The plaque looked like something your grandmother would hang in her gingham-curtained kitchen. Surrounded by a painted border of curlicues were the words HOME SWEET HOME. The curlicues were magically charged symbols that strengthened the slate and increased its capacity to hold the Morfran. HOME SWEET HOME had no magical significance; it was my aunt’s idea of a joke.
Okay, so Mab doesn’t have the world’s sharpest sense of humor. She’s still a formidable demon fighter.
I tucked the slate into my jacket’s inner pocket. After checking again to make sure my weapons were secure, I went to meet Daniel.
THE SCENE IN DEADTOWN HADN’T CHANGED MUCH SINCE this morning. All the zombies who’d usually be working the night shift were restricted to DA-1, thanks to the Code Red, and every single one of them seemed to be out on the streets. The mood was tense, the air buzzing with that electric feeling that happens right before lightning strikes.
I kept my gaze on the pavement in front of me, though I could feel heads turn to track my path. I ignored occasional pushes, choosing to interpret them as harmless jostling on a crowded sidewalk, despite flares from my demon mark that urged me to turn and punch whoever had shoved me.
Then someone stopped in front of me, deliberately blocking my path. Uh-oh, I thought, raising my eyes, here it comes. My demon mark goaded me to reach for a weapon. I balled my hand into a fist, but kept my arm at my side.
“Hi, Vicky. Jeez, how loud do I have to shout your name? I called you, like, three times, and then I still had to stop right in front of you to get your attention.”
“Tina.” My fist unclenched. Standing in front of me was the teenage zombie who’d briefly been my apprentice before a new shiny object had come along to distract her from demon slaying. Lately, though, she’d been trying to get back in my good graces, even studying demonology on her own time. I was glad I hadn’t gone for a weapon. Tina could be annoying, but she was basically a good kid.
Tonight she wore purple skinny jeans and a tight T-shirt bearing the slogan CODE RED? KILL IT DEAD! spelled out in rhinestones. It looked like Tina had found yet another new shiny object. Literally.
“Nice shirt. Is it a political statement or a fashion statement?”
“Both, of course. Duh. Plus an artistic statement, too. I made it, and I’m selling zillions of them out of my Etsy store. Mostly to norms, if you can believe that.” Her gray-green face creased in a scowl. “Although I can’t tell whether they want to stand in solidarity with us in Deadtown or just, you know, look cool.” Her expression brightened. “Hey, you want one? I’ll let you have it for fiftee—uh, ten percent off.”
“I don’t think I’m cool enough to wear that.”
Tina tilted her head as she appraised my outfit. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Anyway, here.” She thrust a piece of paper at my face.
“What’s this?” I took the flyer and held it where I could read the thing without going cross-eyed.
“A unity rally. Your boyfriend is organizing it. He’s all about, like, nonviolence and coming together and not splitting into factions and stuff. It’ll be awesome.”
I studied the flyer. Tina was right—the rally was meant to inspire Deadtown residents to work together for equality. I’d figured Kane would be doing something like this, but it felt weird to hear about it from Tina. He would’ve told me about it if we’d managed to have a conversation since Code Red was imposed; I knew that. But with all our problems, conversation was exactly what I’d been avoiding. Hell, say it, Vicky—what I’d been fearing. My heartbeat sped up, and all I wanted was to see Kane’s face, to feel him in my arms. The zombie witness interviews could wait. My need to find Kane, to push away all the terrible things that had come between us, was bigger and more urgent than any homicide case.
“Do you know where—?” I started to ask.
Tina snatched the flyer from my hand. “Hey, you didn’t say anything about this part. Didn’t you see it?” Her sparkly pink fingernail pointed at a name in the list of speakers. Tina Terror—the stage name she’d chosen back when she aspired to become a zombie pop star. “Kane invited my school to send a speaker. You know, to give the paranormal youth perspective. My whole school voted, and they picked me! It would’ve been unanimous except some of the sophomores thought it’d be funny to write in Jenna because she’s, like, so shy and there’s no way she’d get up on a stage. Anyway, I won. There I am, on the list right there. It’s okay to use Tina Terror, don’t you think? I mean, even though I gave up singing it’s still got name recognition. Like, people would look at the flyer and be like, ‘Tina Zawadzki—who’s that?’ But if they see Tina Terror, they might go, ‘Oh, yeah. That singer chick. I remember her.’ Know what I mean?”
Somewhere in Tina’s flood of words, my plan to drop everything and find Kane got washed away. It would be silly to go rushing through Deadtown, trying to find him so he could sweep me up into his arms and tell me everything was all right. This wasn’t some stupid movie, and everything wasn’t all right. Everything was a million miles from all right.
I watched the zombies filling the streets of Deadtown. Tina, still chattering about the rally. A woman in a nice suit, her shiny brown hair carefully cut to frame her monstrous face, who’d clearly once been some kind of professional. A group of men in Red Sox jerseys, gathered around a radio listening to the game. A young couple holding hands. Kane could hold rallies to bring them together—he was good at that sort of thing—but who was going to save them from a demonic spirit that saw them as nothing but food?
That would be my department.
I told Tina I had to go, but I promised to be at the rally. Then, still aching for Kane, I walked away from Deadtown.
THERE WAS TROUBLE AT THE CHECKPOINT INTO HUMAN-CONTROLLED BOSTON. The norm guard wouldn’t let me bring my weapons through.
Daniel, who’d been watching for me, came over as we were arguing.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, showing his detective shield. “She has clearance. I checked the database this afternoon—she’s on the list.”
“She is.” The guard’s jaw was set so hard it was amazing he could get any words out. “But her weapons aren’t.”
Daniel’s glance went to me, and I folded my arms. “Tools of the trade. I need them.”
“Three concealed daggers, plus one concealed handgun with extra ammunition,” the guard continued, as though I hadn’t spoken. “And if you look at the list, nothing by her name clears her for bringing a weapon into Boston.” He motioned to Daniel, who stepped up beside him in the booth. The guard turned his back to me, blocking my view of the screen. “See? Nothing about weapons. I can’t allow her to bring those through.”
Daniel argued. He threatened. He made phone calls. He cajoled. But the police didn’t have any direct authority over border security, and the guard remained unmoved. “Either she hands over those weapons, or she stays in DA-1.”
“Okay, look,” I said. “I won’t take the bronze daggers or the gun. But this dagger”—I showed him Hellforged—“isn’t a weapon. It’s a ritual tool, an athame. Go ahead and look at it. The blade is dull. You couldn’t slice a tomato with it, let alone hurt a norm.”
The guard ran his thumb along the blade. When no blood appeared, he shrugged. Maybe he got my point, or maybe he was tired of arguing and wanted to get back to watching videos on his smart phone. But he said, “Okay.”
I hated handing over my other weapons. Daniel made sure I got a receipt for them. I suspected that wouldn’t mean much, but there wasn’t time for me to run home and lock them in their cabinet. We’d wasted too much time already.
Daniel led the way to a double-parked black panel truck. When I reached for the front passenger door, he shook his head. “We ride in the back.” He opened the rear door and gestured for me to climb in.
I stopped and peered inside. The interior looked comfortable enough, with several rows of plush seats and a video screen at the front. But there were no windows. Not along the sides, not in the wall that divided us from the driver’s compartment, not in the back doors that Daniel now held, waiting for me to enter.
“Good thing I’m not claustrophobic,” I said. Well, not very claustrophobic. “Um, do the lights stay on after you close the doors?”
