Bloodstone

The zombies finished digging the hole, and the first ones slipped through. “You next,” Brendan said, touching my elbow. It was a little difficult with all the weapons, but I wriggled through. Kane was out a minute later. We ran toward the Common, staying close to the dark buildings.

Somewhere down the block, Tina’s laugh rang out.

THE BOYLSTON STREET T STATION WAS CLOSED, BOTH INBOUND and outbound. I didn’t know how Daniel had managed that, but it was a good idea. Anyone waiting on the platform would be a sitting duck for the Reaper.

Printed signs taped to the locked glass doors directed would-be passengers to Arlington or Park Street T stations or the Silver line bus stop. Not that anyone was around. The Common was completely deserted. Lynne Hong had gotten the message out, and Bostonians weren’t taking any chances tonight.

For an hour, Kane and I wandered the park’s paths and ventured down Boylston or Tremont a little way, never straying far from ground zero between the two subway entrances. Just a woman out walking her dog. I’d brought along Juliet’s silver chain because it looked a little like a leash—but more important, it had been a good weapon against the Old Ones. It hung from my coat pocket.

Two patrol cars passed. One slowed when it saw us; the other cruised right on by. There were no taxis—not surprising after what happened to Mack—and very few cars. The occasional bus that went by was empty except for a single uniformed cop in one of the front seats. Getting cops on the buses that traveled through this part of town must have been Daniel’s doing, too, like the shuttered T station. Shops and restaurants were closed. I’d never seen the streets so quiet and empty.

The slap-slap of footsteps heading toward us from the heart of the Common echoed like gunshots in the silence. With a glance at each other, Kane and I took our positions. He crouched in the shadow of the low brick wall that marks the edge of the Common. I drew my gun—bronze bullets, no vampire made that much noise—and slipped behind the outbound T entrance, where I could peer around the corner without being seen.

The footsteps were hurried but irregular: step step pause, step, pause, stepstepstep. Within moments, a man’s figure staggered from the shadows into the light. He appeared to be about forty, balding, with glasses and a scruffy beard. He wore a light khaki jacket over a sweatshirt and jeans, and he carried a bottle in a brown paper bag. About three steps into the light, he tripped on the pavement and sprawled facedown. There was the crash and tinkle of breaking glass.

Not the Reaper. A drunk.

I holstered my gun and stepped into the light. The man had pushed himself into a sitting position and was holding up his dripping bag, staring at it sorrowfully. The smell of whiskey washed over me from ten feet away.

Down the street, headlights approached. I glanced at my watch. One o’clock. It was the last Silver line bus of the night. And I’d make sure this drunk was on it.

“Come on,” I said. “You’ve got a bus to catch.”

He squinted at me through crooked glasses. “Are you the Reaper?”

“No, I’m your ticket home.”

“I’m here to fight the Reaper.” He dropped the sopping bag and gave a couple of exaggerated punches. I grabbed his outstretched arm and hauled him to his feet.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re strong. Wanna fight?”

I didn’t answer, just dragged him toward the bus stop.

“Noooo!” he howled. “Where’s the Reaper? Lemme at him! I’m gonna kill the bastard!” He swung at me with his free arm, dug in his heels, let his knees collapse. Nothing slowed our progress. And nothing short of a knock-out blow would shut him up, either. I was tempted, but I just kept dragging.

“What the hell is all that noise?”

I knew that voice. Beyond the struggling drunk, Norden glared at me. It was kind of good to see his scowling face. The bus was almost at the stop.

“He wants to be a hero,” I said. “Help me get him out of here.”

Norden waved the bus to a stop, then grabbed the drunk’s legs and helped me carry him on board. While I gave the bus driver two bucks for the fare, Norden and the uniformed cop wrestled the guy into a seat and handcuffed him to it. He yanked at the cuffs and yelled for the Reaper to come out and fight.

“Don’t let him out until the end of the line,” Norden said. “If you can stand his racket that long.”

“If he doesn’t settle down, he can spend the night in the drunk tank,” the cop replied. “You hear that?” he shouted over the yelling. “No Reaper for you tonight. I’ll have a patrol car waiting at the end of this bus ride unless you shut it right now.”

They were still arguing as the bus closed its door and pulled away.

Norden wiped sweat from his scarred face with the back of his arm. “Damn crazy drunk.” His voice sounded breathy, like dealing with the guy had winded him.

“McFarren told me you quit the Goon Squad. You’re the first cop I’ve seen all night. Other than the ones on the buses, I mean. Where’s your partner?” No cop would be patrolling this area tonight without backup.

“You’re here alone.” Norden couldn’t seem to get a breath. “What the hell are you doing out here, huh? You should have stayed in Deadtown. With all the other freaks.”

I felt, more than saw, Kane’s ears prick up. A growl rumbled from his throat.

Something felt wrong. What was Norden doing here by himself? He mopped his face, his handkerchief wiping the scars. Scars he’d gotten at the Paranormal Appreciation Day Concert, in the middle of a Morfran attack.

I heard a distant cawing, like a flock of crows perched somewhere in the Common.

Oh, no.

I reached for my gun.

Kane growled again, and sprang. So fast his movement was a blur, Norden pulled out his gun and shot him. Kane backflipped and, with a piercing yelp of pain, landed on the far side of the wall.

Norden knocked my gun from my hand and jammed his own under my chin. “Hands up, where I can see them both.”

I raised my hands, straining to hear anything from Kane.

“Let’s go see the werewolf,” Norden said. He dragged me over to the wall. Behind it, Kane lay on his side, bleeding from his shoulder. His ribs moved rapidly as he panted. Norden let go of me, but the barrel of his gun still pressed into the flesh under my jaw. He pulled a second gun, aiming it directly at Kane’s head.

“Don’t move,” he said. “You so much as twitch, and I blast a silver bullet through this werewolf’s skull. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“You tried to make it look like a dog,” he muttered. “But I know it’s a wolf. They said there’d be a werewolf.”

“Who did?”

“They. Them. The voices, the birds. You know.” He voice rose in pitch, and he pressed the gun into me so hard I had to rise up on my toes. “Or they know you. They told me you’d be the fifth.”

“What birds, Norden?”

“Black birds. Big ones. They live in my head and caw at me. They scratch the inside of my skull. They . . . they tear at my nerves with their beaks.” He shuddered. “When I’m around zombies, the birds scream with hunger. They make me . . . they make me want to eat dead flesh.” I could smell the fear and desperation in his sweat. “And kill. I never killed before, not even on the job. But the birds . . .”

He shook himself, and I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting a bullet. But he stepped back. He removed the gun from my jaw but kept it pointed at me. He kept the other gun pointed directly at Kane. His voice lowered to its normal range. “You’ve got one gun left, four knives, and that big-ass sword. Put your right hand on top of your head, and use two fingers, left hand, to pull out the other gun. Then throw it behind me.”

I complied, moving very slowly. I opened to the demon plane. Norden was all beak and wings. Crows dove at