Big Ugly finished collapsing. Two of his friends clamored right behind him. One tried to get hold of a very large, equally ugly human being who was down and squashing Dean because Singe’s victim had fallen forward onto him. The guy was still breathing but wouldn’t stick with it long. He had several serious leaks.
I laid into the hands trying to drag him. Bones crunched. Somewhere beneath it all Dean groaned piteously. I gave the final villain a solid bop between snakish yellow eyes. He took a knee after gifting me with a straight jab that flung me two-thirds of the way back toward the door to Dean’s kitchen kingdom. From her office Singe called, “I was counting on you to last a little longer.”
Females.
I glanced in as I headed back for more. Singe was cranking a device that would span her little crossbow, which apparently had the pull to drive steel quarrels through brick walls.
One ugly was just plain determined to take the big man home with him. The other scrabbled after a wooden box said fellow must have dropped. I made sure my feet were solidly arranged on my downhill end and waded in.
I gagged. The guy on top of Dean, though breathing, had begun to rot.
My partner quit daydreaming and got into the game at last.
One ugly responded by voiding his bowels. He grabbed Singe’s victim by an ankle and headed out. I whapped his pal till he gave up on the box, then stomped on the ally his buddy had given up dragging as he went through the doorway. Despite the bolt in his forehead, that one retained the ability to groan.
With generous assistance from a wall I launched my pursuit, but ended it leaning on the rail of the stoop.
Singe bustled out beside me, anger smoking off her. She pointed her weapon. Her bolt ripped right through one creature’s shoulder. The impact spun him and knocked him down. “Whoa! This sumbitch has some kick! I think I just sprained my wrist.” She watched the uglies trundle up Macunado Street. “I will go reload, then we can get after them.”
Besides her genius for figures and finance, Pular Singe is the best damned tracker in TunFaire.
“The Dead Man couldn’t control those guys.”
“You are correct. That is not good.” Singe eyed the fetid mess blanketing Dean. The big man had ceased to resemble a human being. His sailor’s rags had begun to drift out of the mess.
Nothing mortal ought to decay that fast.
“I’m sure the Dead Man will tell us all about it.” Which was a subtle test to see if my partner was paying attention.
A little blonde watched us from across the street, so motionless she didn’t seem to be breathing. She clutched the string handles of a small yellow bag in front of her. She wore a floppy blue hat somewhere between a beret and a chef’s cap. Her hair hung to just above her shoulders, cut evenly all the way round. A wisp of bang peeped out from under the hat. She wore an unseasonably heavy coat made up of sizable patches in various shades of red, gold, and brown. Its hem hovered at her knees. Quite daring, that, as her legs were bare. Her eyes were big, blue, and solemn. She met my gaze briefly, then turned and walked uphill slowly, goose-stepping, never moving her hands. I guessed her to be in the age range large nine to small eleven.
Singe said, “She has no scent.”
That was my partner, the Dead Man.
A sleepy voice said, “I see her, too. I’ll follow her.”
Penny Dreadful, human, girl, teenager (a terrible combination), the Dead Man’s pet, and the final member of this strange household, had decided to drag herself out of bed and see what the racket was all about.
As Penny pushed in between us, Singe turned a blank face my way that was all too expressive. I was in no position to grumble about anyone lying in bed since it usually takes divine intervention to roust me out before the crack of noon.
Penny is fourteen, shy around me but brash toward everyone else. She used to be the last priestess of a screwball rural cult. She lives with us because we stashed her once for her protection and she never got around to leaving. The Dead Man is fond of her inquiring mind.
“Let’s deal with this mess before we do anything else. Penny, get the field cot set up in my office. We’ll put Dean in there.”
She grumbled. That’s what teens do when they’re told to do something. All life is an imposition. But she went. She liked Dean.
Singe said, “Let us shut the door before the second wave shows up.”
She helped drag the injured raider. The door needed no major repairs. The damage was all cosmetic. I was pleased.
Dean and Singe’s victim were less encouraging. Dean was unconscious and covered with yuck. I worried that he had internal injuries. “I’ll get Dr. Harmer in a few minutes.”
I stood up, bemused, though this was not the first time my stoop had hosted a raft of violent idiots. I was bemused because my telepathic sidekick was bemused. He was bemused because he had been unable to get past the surface thoughts of the raiders.
The door resounded to a tap.
Singe’s head whipped round. She pushed me out of her way, cracked the peephole for form’s sake, then opened up for her half-brother, the ratman gangster John Stretch. Behind him loomed his lieutenant, Dollar Dan Justice, the biggest ratman in town. All five feet three of him. More henchrat types lurked in the street.
John Stretch said, “We heard there was trouble.” His whiskers wiggled as he sniffed out the story. He was a colorful dresser, wearing a yellow shirt, striped red-and-white trousers, and high-top black boots. Dollar Dan, though, was clad plain as dirt.
Singe babbled.
John Stretch patted her shoulder. “Two of them? With poisoned bolts? No? Too bad. What can we do?”
The Dead Man asked for someone to hustle a message to Dr. Harmer. And could someone please track the ones that got away? The wounded one had left a generous blood trail. I said, “I could use some help moving Dean. And some cleaning specialists to clear the mess.” Meaning the rotting remains.
John Stretch said, “I hope my women can stand that.”
Which said a lot about the pong. Ratfolks find most smells I don’t like to be lovely fragrances.
Dollar Dan got busy lieutenanting while his boss and I chewed the fat. The crowd in the street broke up. One ratman headed downhill to get the doctor. The nastiest bunch headed the other direction, never asking what they should do if they caught up. Two more sniffed around the spot whence the blonde had watched. They couldn’t find a scent.
Singe said, “I will take that once we finish here.”
Her brother didn’t argue so I didn’t. He said, “I will ask Dollar Dan to go along. No one will look out for you better, Singe,” he added when she gave him the fisheye. “So let me be selfish.”
“Box?” What box?
“Oh. That box.”
That bit of art in cherrywood, coated with mush, lay snuggled up to the wall beside the umbrella stand.
“It’s all nasty.”
“Crap. Not good. We might have to redo the floor.” I scooted into the kitchen, filled a bucket with water, rounded up some cleaning rags, got back out into the hall. I found brother and sister rat people in a heated debate about Dollar Dan.
I said, “Singe, let them look out for you. It won’t hurt. It’s not a sign of weakness. And it’ll keep your brother and Dan and me all happy.”
She gave me an exasperated look but abandoned the argument.
